The Memo

Terror Scare

2007-03-25T03:48:00.000-05:00

Hello, friends. It's Chas, back from a long trip to the Vatican (not France, Spencer ... like I'd associate with cheese-eating surrender monkeys). I won't bore you with the details of my journey — like flying in my own Gulf Stream V-SP, the most expensive private jet in the world at a whopping $45 million — but let's just say that Christianity and the conservative way of life are safe for the time being and will be for a while after I did a little favor for Joe, aka Pope Benedict XVI. Hey, I owed him for recommending my new tailor. Seriously, it's so hard to find a good one these days that doesn't make you feel nervous when he cups your balls.

Anyway, to celebrate my return home, I was joined for a light lunch by my girlfriend, an overqualified receptionist with a body that would turn Sam Donaldson straight (as if that's even possible).

Seeing as how I've been so busy saving America from demonic atheists and liberals — same thing — I haven't really been able to keep an eye on the Homeland Security's terror level, which happened to be raised that day to Orange: "high risk of terrorist attacks." I read about it in the Union Leader while refueling in New Hampshire (98 percent white).

We were at a restaurant with a name you probably can't pronounce in a neighborhood you only wish you could be seen in, eating watermelon soup with vegetables. It's part of this whole Sonoma diet we're into. The sun was out that afternoon, so baby was wearing a stunning Philip Treacy hat and Matsuda sunglasses, and we were discussing the miracle of carbonated natural water.

All of a sudden, a loud, booming siren sounded, as if a tornado had just touched down, a hurricane was about to hit shore or a meteor was racing toward the Earth, and we were all screwed. Only, the weather was perfect, not a cloud in the sky, and nobody from NASA had called to give me a heads up. I knew something was wrong. Could it be my old foe, Al-Qaeda? It kept going and going, and it seemed to be getting louder and louder. My anxiety kicked in, and I didn't have any Xanax around, because baby took them all before the McCain fund-raiser last week.

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a moving van parking nearby, and the driver got out, wearing a turban. Could that be the Al-Qaeda operative? Instead of taking any chances, I took the offensive and grabbed my chilled salad fork and began sprinting toward him and the truck he drove, which very well could have been full of C4!

I tackled him, put the fork to his neck and screamed, "Not today, Barack!" He screamed like a little girl. I was sure it was due to his guilty conscience, but it turned out to be because of the freezing metal. "I no know what'chu mean," he pleaded, and until I checked to see his vehicle was full of chairs, I didn't believe him, and I kept slapping him to try and get some answers.

Eventually the siren stopped, leaving me puzzled and highly embarrassed. Explaining the situation to the cops only got worse when they began laughing at me, because the siren I freaked out over was in fact the weekly Wednesday-at-noon test of the civil defense siren that's been going on since it was installed during the reign of that commie, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, in case Japan or Germany got ballsy.

Afterward, I looked at the bumper sticker on my Ferrari 612 Scaglietti and knew I hadn't overreacted and that my intentions were in the best interest of the country, no matter what some hippy, liberal douche might say.

~What Would Rumsfeld Do?~

So we meet again.

2007-03-23T16:48:00.000-05:00

Well, well, well. I guess it's safe to start talking politics again. My formidable opponent, Chas, must have returned from his six-month retreat, during which he spent time in the South of France (trying for force people to begin using the reference "Freedom Fries"), the Alps, Canada (on accident), and the week-long seminar--a fusion of business and pleasure--held annually in Beavereater, Colo., by the American Association of People Who Hate People With Different Opinions.

I'm hoping that Chas, whenever he's not watching TiVoed reruns of the Colbert Report, can drop in from time to time, proffering words of wisdom, as well as providing his, I'm guessing, horrible take on the new column in the Arkansas Times entitled "All, Right, Arkansas," penned by my former co-intern, Katherine Whitworth. I'm sure he rejects any notion that shows sympathy with liberal tendencies, such as feminism in her most recent column. In that case, I'll have to take to her defense, as I've found after reading a few of her columns that I agree with many of the points she offers.

* * *

In other news, one of the most respected atheists and scientific writers of our time, Prof. Richard Dawkinds of Oxford University, has been gracious enough to lend his time to that tiny little spot on the map that is Little Rock. He'll be at the Clinton School of Public Service, Thursday, April 26, at 6 p.m. Anyone who is interested in the "truth," as he puts it (and I agree), should attend. "Be there, or be scared," I wrote to the Arkansas Times. Or... Be indifferent on the subject of cosmology and teleology, as well as evolutionary biology and quantum theory, and stay preoccupied with something as mundane as watching T.V. Who cares?

If you have no idea who I'm talking about, check out this video. Also, yes, he was the guy that was the main character in the South Park episode about Atheism.

2006-12-11T12:25:00.000-06:00

To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

The Da Vinci Cola ... in stores 12/12/12 (twice as evil)

2006-06-14T13:38:00.000-05:00

I got to see The Da Vinci Code last Sunday, and for those of you who've yet to "be a part of it," be thankful. I hardly understand why people are so up in arms about this movie. I understand the implications of the movie and how easily--if proven true, of course--these ideas could destroy Christianity as we know it. But these ideas are nothing new.

Maybe I watch an unhealthy amount of The History Channel, but I knew that there are theories that Mary Magdalene was Jesus' lover, that they had a kid, and that the Knights Templar and Priory of Zion supposedly protected the Holy Grail, or the "Holy Bloodline," since the birth of Jesus' daughter, Sarah.

Why would this be so earth-shattering? Well, of course it would mean that whomever carried the blood of Christ would be holy, and it would make Mary Magdalene a holy figure, kinda fucking up this whole monotheistic ideal (because Jesus is only God in the flesh, right?).

So instead of watching a intellectually provocative movie, all I could think about the entire two-and-some-odd hours was how bad I wanted to bone the chick that co-starred with Tom Hanks, as well as how bad Tom Hanks needed to cut his hair. He looked like and hippie trying to clean up for an interview or something. Nasty shit.
Look at her. ... Totally do-able.
See, since I've had some extra time on my hands lately, I've been catching up on movies I've missed. Before going to see The Omen on 6/6/06, the last time I'd been to the movies was to see King Kong. I finally got to see Capote and Crash, both of which were better than I could have imagined.

I'm outta here. All hail the Lord, Bob Saget.

My favorite time of year

2006-06-01T13:41:00.000-05:00

That's my dawg, Samir. Tell 'em who's the boss. (Don't forget to tell yourself, too.)
I love the NBA Playoffs, but that's not why this is my favorite time of year. The playoffs have nothing on the goddamn National Spelling Bee. Talk about thrilling television. I'm picking Samir Patel to go all the way.

Watch it tonight if you get a chance. There's Bonny Jain, who recently won the National Geographic Bee (I think that's what it's called) and who thinks he knows everything, and I'm hoping to see him cry like the little bitch that he is by the end of the second round.

Usually for the spelling bee, I'll pick a white kid to go all the way because it's like rooting for the underdog. Caitlin Campbell is showing some promise, and she shares my last name, but I like this Patel kid. I don't know what it is, but I think he's got it. He's one of those spelling bee kids that's in his own fucking world, and every time he gets a word right, he runs to his chair, nearly knocking everyone off the stage it seems, and commences to talk to himself. If that doesn't spell W-I-N-N-E-R, I don't know what does.

I'm almost saddened when I watch this competition, though. I understand how hard these kids work for the chance to win, but honestly--you know what, I'm not even gonna say it. I'll just say that, if they were my kids, I'd pressure them to do other things that learn Greek roots, like maybe pressuring them to learn social skills, or telling them that talking to yourself is not normal, despite what many think. Social skills will take you a lot further in life than being able to spell "suivez."

Right?

An ode ... to actors for The History Channel (THC)

2006-05-26T14:04:00.000-05:00

Thank you, thy actors for THC, for giving hope to the hopeless. For I now know that there are hundreds of people that are dumber and less talented than me. You offer proof almost every day. What, with your programs on Civil War heroes, JFK conspiracies, and Knights of the Templar explications. So, again, I say, thanks!

I'm a THC junkie, I just watched a seemingly 15-fucking-hour special on military tactics used in the Bible, and the acting was so bad, I was compelled to come in my boiling hot room, sweat my balls off, and write about it.

Even as a junior in high school, I learned more about drama--the art, things you do, things you don't do--than all these motherfuckers on THC combined. Rule #1 for up-and-coming actors: Take it easy with the facial expressions. You can quickly tell when you are watching an inexperienced actor, by watching his or her eyebrows and frown lines. If they lift their eyebrows a lot, kind of making it look like their foreheads are frozen, they're inexperienced and have probably had little to no training whatsoever.

What do you expect, Spencer? It's the fucking History Channel. I understand, though, that considering the circumstances and how much they're getting paid to play Joshua before the Battle of Jericho, you can't really expect Denzel Washington. But goddamn. I thought THC would have more funds than that. Shit.

Can't wait to see a special about Mormons. Or hippies. ... pieces of shit.
I'm Bob Saget, this is what I do/my house, my car, this is my crew

Will work for p***y and ... err ... yeah (Why did I just censor myself?)

2006-05-18T17:40:00.000-05:00

Gotta be honest, guys. (I'm putting on my serious face now.) I'm kinda bummed about not getting the job. It was a serious blow to my ego, which you should know by know is ever-expanding. And since hindsight is always 20-20, I've realized something. As you should know, I did the whole 8 to 5 thing for about a year and a half. I wore a suit and tie every fucking day.

I was happy when I got the internship for the Oxford American. I got to wear whatever the hell I wanted. I got to work weird hours. It was great, and looking back, I think it spoiled me.

But when I heard the alarm sound at 7:05 a.m., I wasn't quick to thrust myself out of bed and jump in the shower. In fact, I hit "snooze". And that's exactly what I did for the next ten minutes. The significance for me telling you that is that, before any new job I've ever had, I've always had trouble sleeping the night before, kinda like the way you were in childhood when the bus for summer camp was leaving the next morning.

However, this job didn't bring that excitement. I was basically going to be four salespeople's bitch all day--read their e-mail, answer their phones, etc. But I would be getting paid. I haven't seen a paycheck with my name on it in months. But (I swear I'm getting to the point now) I'm glad I didn't get the job.

I'm glad I'm not just another suit-and-tie working for the man. Granted, "the man" pays for my food and gas, and he will employ me again one of these days. Alright, goddammit, I can't do this anymore. I'm posting something funny tomorrow, I swear. No more pissin' and whinin' from me.

* * *

This week's Did You Know?: (Insert music you'd expect to hear while riding a merry-go-round at the county fair.) Did you know Chinese finger traps are used for sexual purposes in Catholic churches?

He shoots... it's up... it looks good... BRICK! Dammit!

2006-05-16T09:46:00.000-05:00

"Hi, Spencer! How are you? It's so great to see you, glad to see you're back," she said, glee spilling out her veins.

"I'm fine. It's great to see you, too. Should we get started?" I say, straigtening my tie and fluffing my jacket. Her eyes widen.

"I wasn't here yesterday, so I was unable to get the results of your drug test. Let me run downstairs to personnel. You just have a seat and wait just a minute. K?" she says through a smile. I nod.

I flip through post it notes and curl the phone cord around my finger. Someone's calling, but I can't answer, yet. I catch eyes with a few people walking by, some of whom I haven't seen in months. I get a few back slaps and "Glad you're back!"s.

Ten minutes pass and I see the woman who greeted me walking toward me from across the room, a folder in hand. As she paces closer, I see the irrevocable smile on her face just minutes ago had vanished. Her lips are perched and she refuses to look me in the eye as she passes me and heads straight to the corner office and closes the door behind her.

After a few minutes of awkward looks from others and my uneasiness, the door to the office slings open. My new boss (I hope) approaches me, leans in and, almost whispering, says, "Follow me."

I feel like a third-grader who just got pulled out of class by his principal. One of my friends smirks at me. An older man looks at me as if I'm three feet tall. Our approximately two-minutes trip to the human resources department is eerie and speechless, with exception for a lighthearted conversation stopper and starter, "I've had a headache all day ... But I just took some Tylenol."

We reach human resources and my new boss hands the folder to the HR director, forces a grin at me, and leaves the office.

"Spencer, how are you?" the polite woman asks.

"Great," I reply.

"Well, there were a few problems with your test results," she says, then looks at the other woman in the room, the one whose job it is to assess test results and such. They lock eyes, then both turn to me.

"You can go home now," they say, then before they open their mouths I nearly tell them to stop. I know what they're going to say. I should just walk.

The nice woman pauses. Now, she's ready.

"We'll call you."

Gold Acid

2006-05-11T11:02:00.000-05:00

Your piss is not supposed to look like this.
Sorry for the inconsistency guys. Been looking for a job. I found one, nevertheless, and I was offered the job. I accepted. Where am I going with this? I met a brick wall with metal spikes layering the wall. Immediately after I was offered the job, I was required to go take a drug test. Yeah, "Oh, shit!" is right. It wasn't one of those cheap-ass drug tests I always took at Juvey. No, these Nazis send your urine off to a laboratory, and you have to wait at least three days to know your results.

I swear to god it sounded like my piss was fizzing when I gave the sample to the woman. It looked like a half-empy (not half-full) cup filled with gold acid or flat light beer. I'm surprised the shit didn't eat through the cup.

I should've known better, I know. I just didn't think I'd have to take a drug test after my first interview. They usually give a drug screening after the second interview.

Now, I know that no hard drugs—meth, coke, ecstasy, etc.—are gonna show up. I stil may have a chance at getting the job, but I'm nervous as shit. I've taken so many drug tests to date that I know certain procedures that will increase your chances of passing—at least, they worked for me.

First, don't EVER use those goddamn cleansing liquids you can buy at head shops. They cost too much and they don't do anything that drinking tons of water can't do. Some of them can even be picked up by lab tests and, therefore, fail you anyway.

The main thing to remember is drink as much water as possible from the time you know you'll have to test until you finally do. You want to get it to where the water goes almost straight through you—like, after you drink a bottle of water, you pee in 15 minutes. What happens (I suppose) is the water doesn't stay in your system long enough to pick up the toxic agents that are in your fat cells. Your results will usually come out diluted enough to where, even if it is in your system, the agents will be insufficient enough to fail you.

Wow, I know way too much about this shit.

You know what grinds my gears?

2006-05-04T10:22:00.000-05:00

To: The Congregation
From: Sir Chas
Date: Thursday, May 4, 2006
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a big-zero, bland, boring, colorless, dead, driveling, flat, flavorless, inane, innocuous, insipid, jejune, least, lifeless, limp, milk-and-water, nothing, nowhere, stale, tame, tasteless, tedious, tiresome, unimaginative, uninspiring, uninteresting, unpalatable, vacant, vacuous, watery, weak, wishy-washy subject line.]

Hello my faithful minions. Did you miss me? Does the sight of my name make you randy? Do you need to be excused from the table?

I apologize for my lack of entries, but try to understand that I've been very, very busy boning your mother. Trust me, it was worth it. Now that I've caught my breath, I'll try to post more often — wink.

After walking my German shorthair around my secluded, fenced-in neighborhood this morning and pouring myself a steaming cup of Starbuck's blend of the week, "Morning Brew," I sat down and read the only publication worth my time ... The Wall Street Journal. Not only do the writers' tone and style dazzle me, but the actual paper goes well with my giant African mahogany breakfast table.

I was extremely bothered by the fact that that no-good, Jesus-hating terrorist Zacarias Moussaoui was sentenced to a life sentence. My face actually turned red, as red as the stripes in the American flag. What bothered me was not that he was given this sentence, but that others had called for his death via execution.

How is putting him out of his misery going to help? Idiotic, animal-like Muslims would only rally around his termination and make him out to be some sort of martyr.

I commend the jury that renderred this verdict, as it is the only punishment that fits his crime (knowing what was going to happen to the men and women inside the World Trace Center's twin towers. I don't care how "limited" his knowledge was — he knew!). Being continuously tortured and brutally sodomized in a 5x9 cell will make him think about what he's done. Bubba will make sure of that!

Maybe one day, after having his o-ring snapped by an extra-gerthy Alabama black snake, he'll realize that what lies ahead of him is going to burn ... real bad ... forever. He should have spent a little bit more time listening to Bob Dylan instead of Osama: "Don't follow leaders and watch you parking meters."

Soon, I calmed down and drove to work in the city in my brand new Hummer. Hey, I don't care about this gas price scare — I'm rich, bitch!

Can we get a round of applause? Bless your li'l hearts...

2006-05-03T14:24:00.000-05:00

In all honesty, though, I'm pleasantly surprised. Sometimes, I honestly feel like I'm arguing with a milk jug sometimes. I'm glad you all don't agree with me. That's one thing I hate when I read blogs: everyone agrees with the blogger like he or she's some goddamn William Faulkner of blogs. I'm glad you guys disagree, but, more importantly, I'm glad you still read even though you don't blindly follow my words.

It'd still be cool if you did, though. So, think about it.

For a final thought, just know something. Religion isn't bad in its entirety. If going to church on Sunday and confessing his sins helps Bobby Joe quit his drug addiction, or helps Bill get through a divorce, or helps Maria stop being a filthy fuckin' whore, more power to them. It just bothers me when people think that's the only answer.

• • •

I really need to stop being nice or, rather, agreeable. It's killin' me.

You know, I might as well talk about it because everyone else is. (So, yes, if you're wondering. I do follow the pack. I'm Sheep #69.) Anybody get a chance to watch Stephen Colbert's speech at the White House correspondence dinner? The man has balls, I tell you. Big 'uns.

One of my favorite punchlines was when he compared interviewing the Rev. Jesse Jackson to boxing an ice glacier (sorry, I know "ice glacier" is a redundant statement, but I just don't think they sound right without the other). I absolutely abhor Jesse Jackson. I'm not even gonna get started. Well, a quick one. If he were burning alive, I wouldn't let the incessantly drunk bum that lives next to the hole-in-the-wall bar on my street a chance to piss on the Rev. to put him out. That merely begins to describe my distaste for that shithole of a man. Punk bitch.

However, if you haven't checked out Colbert's speech, here it is.

• • •

Have a nice day. Watch this IKEA commercial. Funny shit.

Mormons and immigrants

2006-05-02T09:43:00.000-05:00

These guys put the Rah! in ROCK!
It's so hard to hate Mormons. I mean, I can't lie. They're usually nice, genuine people. But I have a problem with all Christians. I had a conversation with one of my Christian friends the other day, and this is what I told him...

The fact that 90 percent (and don't debate me on this) of Christians do good things—take mission trips, give food and shelter to those in poverty, help storm victims—with a motive other than benevolence is detestable. Think about it. If you told me that these people did this kind of work without thinking they were bettering their chances to go to "Heaven," I'd call you a liar. "God would be so proud of me!" You know that's what they're thinking internally. If you disagree, you're probably one of the people I'm talking about.

It's mind-boggling the audacity they have to go to poverty-ridden countries on missionary trips to spend time with these communities that have nothing compared to society in America and shove their beliefs in their faces and make them think that their lives would be more like ours if they believed in Jesus. Of course, I know, they don't tell people this. But that's what their demonstrating. The missionaries drive into town in beautiful vehicles, with CD players and air conditioners, and hop out and sing songs and tell these people that their god isn't real—no, the God that provided those nice vans and healthy children and two-story brick houses with white picket fences is the real God. Fuck off. Religion is arbitrary. It's given to you by default. Your fate was decided for you before you were concepted, nights after your mom and dad made sloppy drunk love after a night of binge drinking.

... Whew! Anyway, look at this Mormon's pictures. Make fun of him. Encourage him. Do what you will. I've already commented on a few of his pictures—check "The Group @ Sylvan Hills," "Us and the Beckwiths," and "Wings of a Butterfly I."

Also, a new style of preaching: Toothless ex-con shouting vulgarities. (I swear he's not joking.)

• • •

OK, Lindsay brought up a good point in her comment on my Bush rant. "Yeah, we would all like to beat the shit out of Dubya. While America is diverse in its population, the official language is English. Do you not think that its citizens and immigrants should at least know the official language of the country they inhabit?"

My point, Lindsay, is not that they shouldn't learn English. What I was trying to say is we—as in the nation as a whole, and George Bush—should be humbled by the fact that people who've YET to learn English would like to be able to sing our national anthem in their native language. Of course, any country an immigrant moves to, he or she should make a valid attempt to learn that country's native tongue.

But don't ridicule them because they can't (and I'm not saying you are, Linsday). Don't take a good-hearted attempt by them to honor this country and shit all over it. That's my point. To me, his comments could compare to your mom spending all day baking you a cake and the moment you see it, snapping, "I fucking hate that flavor. You should know I only like vanilla!"

Ya see, folks?

You ought 'ta, they ought 'ta

2006-04-28T17:19:00.000-05:00

Tell me the name of this place isn't a fuckin' paradox.

I'm about to let it fly, so, yeah, there's your warning.

Goddammit. I'd love to just choke the fuck out of George Bush. I'd like to get him out in a cattle field and chase his little punk-ass around with a rope and, every thirty seconds or so, wrangle him, tie up his legs like a calf, and beat his ass to a bloody pulp—untie him, and do it all again. Punk bitch.

"One of the things that's very important is, when we debate this issue [issuing a government-recognized "National Anthem" is Spanish], that we not lose our national soul," the president exclaimed. "One of the great things about America is that we've been able to take people from all walks of life bound as one nation under God. And that's the challenge ahead of us."

"People from all walks of life" don't want to be under your God, you hillbilly fuck. Oh, but it gets worse. ...

"When the president was asked at a Rose Garden question-and-answer session whether the anthem should be sung in Spanish, he replied: 'I think the national anthem ought to be sung in English, and I think people who want to be a citizen of this country ought to learn English and they ought to learn to sing the national anthem in English.'"

You smug, illiterate son of a bitch. What the fuck makes you think YOU can speak English? Jorjay that busses tables at Applebee's speaks better English than you—and he only knows how to ask for weed. Get over here, Dubya, I'm gon' git you.

Me: "Yo, Georgie-boy, bring your panzy-ass over here. Good boy. Now, sit. Good, Georgie! Here's a glass of oil for being such a good boy."

Bush: "Thank you, Daddy. Did you hear what I said at the Rose Garden? I pretty much said, 'If you can't speak English, then get the fuck out of America!'"

Me: "And you feel better about yourself for saying that?"

Bush: "Well, I suppose. I don't know. Why do you ask me questions like that? You know they confuse me. ... Gettin' all philosoppical on me."

Me: "It's philosophical, shit-for-brains. You know that makes you sound like an arrogant, ignorant American who demands that everyone in the world conform to your way of life. You know shit like what you said is what makes the rest of the world hate us, right? The only fucking people who will agree with you is your goddamn kinfolk in incestial-breeding-gound, barefoot-beatin', goat-fuckin' Texas. Goddammit, George, what am I gonna do with you?"

Bush: "Will you say that again? You lost me at phila... philo...phi—"

Me: "Philosophical, you moronic cum-dumpster. That's it."

Then I commenced to kicking his ass with his own belt. Have a nice day. And weekend. I'll be visiting my three-story mansion on the Jersey shore. No, really. I swear. Bitch. Why don't you believe me? Ah, fuck off.

OK, I'm better now

2006-04-25T09:36:00.000-05:00

Hope everyone's weekend went well. Mine did. Kinda. I had to work at the Arkansas Literary Festival all weekend, which was seemingly tedious at times, other times not so much. I met, face-to-face, what I feared I would: literary snobs.

Granted, I did get to meet some very cool, down-to-earth authors, among those being George Singleton, River Jordan, Krista McGruder, Dayne Sherman, and Kevin Brockmeier. I won't mention any names of the ones that were snobs because I know, with my luck, one of their goddamn fans will read this blog and tell them and I'll get an e-mail from my editor and blobbity blobbity blah.

In case none of you have ever heard of John Hope Franklin, here's a little run-through of his bio: "Born in Oklahoma in 1915, Franklin studied at Fisk University and Harvard, taught at some of the nation’s most prestigious universities, served on committees for FDR and Bill Clinton, published seminal histories of blacks in America, and received the Presidential Medal of Freedom for his work in Civil Rights."

I mention him because he was probably one of the most intelligent, inspiring speakers I've ever seen. It was amazing to watch a man who, at age 90, can recall the time a white woman told him she deserved the spot where he was standing at a parade in Oklahoma in 1929 with amazing vividness. Think about it. As much as he's traveled, which is a lot gleaning from what he told the audience, he's experienced nearly every turning point—good or evil—in the civil rights movement.

OK, I'm done being nice. Really. Fuck shit ass bitch motherfucker.

• • •

"Bush's approval ratings slide to new low"

Holy shit! What the hell are we gonna do, Bocephus? Run. Go git ma' and tell 'er we're moovin' ta Mexeecoh!

"President Bush's approval ratings have sunk to a personal low, with only a third of Americans saying they approve of the way he is handling his job, a national poll released Monday said." Does anyone find something wrong with this statement?

Shouldn't it be more like ... I don't know ... "President Bush's disapproval ratings have risen to a national best; however, still one-third of Americans say they approve of the way he is handling his job, a national poll released Monday said." Yeah, that's better.

The president does have one unwavering cheerleader, though, who will remain with Dubya through thick and thin—Sean Hannity, of Fox News's "Hannity & Colmes." Hell, he'd probably stay with Bush if Dubya had a threesome with Hannity's wife and daughter and egregiously violated his daughter's gerbil. Now that's allegiance, my friend!

Here's what the Associated Press published on the issue: "Sean Hannity will not abandon ship. President Bush's approval ratings have sunk into the 30s, but Fox News Channel's tenacious conservative isn't wavering in his support, even while parting ways with the president over immigration and the Dubai ports deal. 'Let me be straight with you -- I like George Bush,' Hannity said. 'I think he's a man of principle, a man of faith. I think he's got a backbone of steel and he's a real, genuine, big-time leader ... He's a consequential figure for his time. We don't see it right now.'"

"[T]enacious conservative"—I like that. Tenacious is one of those overused words that has lost most of its meaning, kind of like the way "love" loses its real meaning amongst high school sweethearts.

You know what I think of Sean Hannity? He reminds me of one of those gay guys that likes to lay in a tub while other men pee on him.

Church Camp (Pt. 3)

2006-04-20T13:55:00.000-05:00

We packed everything before the commencement dinner and loaded the bus immediately after we ate. The bus driver looked less than thrilled to be setting off on another voyage, his eyes were stuck on the road as the bus sat parked and teenagers stepped onboard. After finding my seat, I slipped on my headphones and rested my eyes.

No more than thirty minutes after we'd left, I was wakened by a panicked passenger.

"I think there was something in that lasagna," he said. "My stomach doesn't feel right."

The "passenger" was Chad, and he looked like a kid trying to fake his way out of going to school. His armpits were soaked, and it looked like the back of his hands were sweating. I guess he wasn't acting.

"I didn't want to say anything ... but I don't feel good either," Courtney said. More kids chimed in, breaking the silence to announce their tummies didn't feel good either.

Pastor Ryan asked the bus driver to pull over at the closest gas station, which was about 15 minutes away. When we arrived, one by one the ecstatic campers I remembered seeing as we were pulling away from the campgrounds were half-running, half-squeezing their legs together, in a rush toward the bathrooms, all with red, frantic faces. I looked around the bus. Matt had fallen back asleep, or was trying at least. I could see melted chocolate residue left on his fingers from the Whoppers I'd given him when we left. The bus driver still had is eyes facing the road, his face expressionless.

I heard a faint sound coming from the back of the bus. Sniffling. Someone was sniffling. I stood up and looked behind me to see Chad hovered over his legs, shaking his head.

"Chad, I thought your stomach wasn't feeling right," I said coldly.

"It's not," he said. I could tell he was crying.

"Dude, if you don't get out now and use the bathroom and end up making the bus driver have to stop again on the way home, me and you are gonna have a problem. You know, that was real smart, Chad—stuffing your face when you hadn't eaten a meal in a week."

"Stop it, Kerry," he said with an attitude that struck me the wrong way. I walked toward the back of the bus where he was seated, but was taken aback by something in the air.

"Damn, man. Did you step in dog crap or something?" I asked, after which he looked up at me and immediately burst into unrelenting tears. Though his words were interrupted every half-second or so, I think he said, "He—didn't—stop—in—time." I went and told the bus driver and Pastor Ryan, who'd made it back to the bus by this time, that I thought Chad had a little "accident."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" the bus driver shouted. "Get his ass off the bus!" He looked back and made eye contact with Chad. "You nasty son of a bitch. Did yo' mama not potty train yo' ass, boy?"

Chad's cry had turned into more of a moan. Pastor Ryan asked Chad nicely and motioned for him to come off the bus but wouldn't touch him—wouldn't even grab his hand. Chad eventually got up and paced to the front of the bus. When he stepped outside he was greeted with, "Hey that's the kid that shit himself!" from the bus driver. I was glad the bus driver had found a way to have fun on this trip. From that point on, the first day of school was a preparatory comedic routine for anyone who had a class with Chad. I had him one year.

"Chad Carson?" asked the teacher.

"Present," he piped.

"Uh, ma'am," I said, "his real name's Chad Ishitmyself."

• • •

After Chad was clean, we headed back toward Morristown. Matt moved to the seat next to me for the rest of the way home. We sat in silence for a few minutes, sort of talking without saying anything. No one else on the bus was moving or speaking. Chad was still sobbing, but no one would hug him.

Listening to the sounds of the road, and looking around at people on the bus, half of whom looked like they didn't release all their frustrations at the last pit stop, I was overcome with this sense of lucidity that I'd never experienced. I started thinking that this life of the God-fearing American just isn't for me. I wasn't—I couldn't believe I was thinking this at the time—zealous for God. And I was happy about it.

"You see what I was talking about now, don't you?" Matt said, as if he could read my mind. I nodded.

"So, were you cleansed at church camp, Kerry?" he jested.

"Yeah, you could say that," I said, "but in a way that only you and I will ever know."

Some of the talks Matt and I shared were starting to make more sense than ever. He'd tell me that there are people, like Chad and Courtney that need church camp. And bible study. And testimonials. And alter calls on Sunday mornings.

I'm not like Chad or Courtney. I was tired of asking questions that I knew had no answer. People like Chad will never ask those questions, and they'll live happily ever after for it. That's fine. For them, at least. Matt and I, on the other hand, were happy that we felt enlightened enough to at least question what people like Pastor Ronnie were trying to teach us. Everything I've learned from them is just that: learned. That doesn't make it real. And, beside the fact, I find this religion to be, well, farcical.

As soon as we approached the Morristown city limit sign, Matt looked at me and giggled. I knew what he was thinking. I was thinking the same thing. We opened our mouthes and half-closed our eyes. Matt held an imaginary microphone to his lips, and subsequently, I followed suit.

I can only ee-ma-junn, what it will be like...

THE END. BITCHES.

Church Camp (Pt. 2)

2006-04-18T21:15:00.000-05:00

... I caught eyes with a girl from Clarksdale during one of the co-ed competitions. We didn't get to talk much because one of the camp counselors saw us and sent us on our ways. Immediately after that, we had to stop playing because Erica from my church collapsed like a sack of potatoes as she was rounding third base. It pissed me off, too, because I was up to bat next. Pastor Ryan woke her up and shoved crackers in her mouth like she was a parrot that wouldn't shut up. My teammates prayed for her. After she was able to stand on her own, everyone broke into song again.

Our God is an awesum' God,
He reigns from Heaven abuv'
With wizz-dom, power and love,
Our God is an awesome God...

I saw Rachel at dinner that night and asked her to sit with me. I got my plate and found my group's table, which was littered with wrappers from their Saltine crackers, and took a seat.

"So what church you from?" asked Casey, who was one of the fasters. I guess he thought he was doing me a favor by initiating meaningless small talk.

"Clarksdale First Assembly," said Rachel. All the guys at the table were staring at her, acting as if each word that came out of her mouth was more important than the last.

"Hey," I said, trying to liven up the conversation, "have y'all ever realized that the acronym for our church is F.A.G.? Think about it, 'cause you can't include 'of' because it's a preposition."

"Dude, that's not funny," Chad said.

Rachel decided the break the awkward silence that followed. "Why are you eating crackers?" she asked innocently. Do you want some of my spaghetti?"

"No, I don't want your spaghetti," snapped Chad. "We are fasting. Do you know what that is?" Rachel nodded.

"But why?"

"Because it's our way of letting Jesus know we care. He suffered, so we're gonna suffer, too. It's a spiritual thing. You probably wouldn't know anything about it. We eat crackers to keep our bodies going, but when we're just a little bit hungry, we pray," said Chad.

Rachel turned her eyes to me. I couldn't tell if she wanted to slap Chad or laugh at him. I shook my head and ate the bite of spaghetti I'd been twirling on my fork throughout the whole conversation.

For the next half-hour, everyone at my church explained to anyone who'd listen why he or she was fasting and why it was important to suffer like Jesus did. People used many superlatives to describe the fasters—brave, interesting, honorable—but no one used any words that came to my mind.

• • •

I tried tempting everyone to break their fast all week but was unsuccessful. Except for Matt. I knew he'd falter. He kept eating crackers during the day, but at night I'd slip him some of my Whoppers and an oats-and-honey granola bar or two. I didn't even speak to Matt, though, about breaking his fast. He slept on the bunk above me, so the second night we were there, I stood up and placed some Whoppers next to his pillow. I awoke in the morning just in time to hear nothing but the crunch of malted milk and sighs of satisfaction.

"God works in mysterious ways, don't he, Matt?" I said.

After two days of exclusiveness, Rachel and I broke it off. We decided we weren't meant for each other—she said I was unpure. I told her that what we did made her just as unpure as me. I also told her that "unpure" isn't a word (even though I found out later that it is). She said she was gonna pray for me.

To my knowledge, everyone followed through with their fasting. They planned to end their fast on Friday at the commencement dinner. Everyone looked to Matt for patience and guidance, seeing as he was taking this whole fasting thing so well. He might've even added a pound or two.

I showed up a little late to the commencement dinner. No one from my church even noticed. How could they? The cooks had put all their elbow grease together and concocted one hell of a church camp meal: lasagna, corn on the cob, mashed potatoes, and fresh salad. Chad was perhaps taking the most delight in his meal and within minutes was asking for seconds.

I was relieved because my youth group was somewhat normal again, despite their trading stories over who suffered the worst, who lost the most weight, and who's gonna do it again next year. I kept to myself and enjoyed the meal, every once in a while glancing over at Rachel who, each time she saw me, lost her smile and scowled at me.

Just as everyone was getting their desserts, Pastor Ronnie, the leader of the camp, addressed us. He was a pretty odd cat, that Pastor Ronnie. He sweat. A lot. And the hair on his back curled and formed a layer on the outside of his T-shirts; it looked as though a thousand and some-odd miniature Batman figurines had thrown their tiny black hooks over the collar of his shirt to climb out of the jungle-esque surface that was his back. He was a large man, and despite his ever-noticeable bulk and intimidating presence, his voice sounded like a half-retarded, pissed-off Jack Russell Terrier. Now that I look back, I think he became a Christian for the sole reason of scoring chicks. Maybe he thought looks didn't matter to Christian girls, so
he'd hit the jackpot.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, boys and girls," Pastor Ronnie said, "but I gotta say something."

Eyes lit up around the room. Campers looked over and around, probably waiting to see some kid with his head down, crying. I, however, was thinking Pastor Ronnie's cup of faith hath runneth over and he just had to testify.

"Where's the group from Morristown? ... Hey, there! Listen everybody. I want you to take a good look at these kids. Those boys and girls are zealous for Christ." Everyone looked at us, wide-eyed and curious.

Patrick, the kid who wore hearing aids resembling a small kidney on each ear, raised his hand in spiritual affirmation. "I'm jealous of Christ, too, Pastor Ronnie!"

Pastor Ronnie ignored him and continued.

"You know what they did? Each and every one of them fasted this week. They suffered for our Lord, Jesus Christ. Now how many of you can say you'd do that?" I guess the whole audience didn't realize that that was a rhetorical question because nearly everyone in the room raised his or her hand.

"Matt, would you mind coming up here and saying a word or two?" Pastor Ronnie asked. Matt looked scared at first, then shrugged his shoulders and walked up to the podium.

"Everyone, this is Pastor Ryan's son, Matt. Now, Matt, tell everyone about the sacrifice you made to honor Jesus."

Matt walked grudgingly up to the microphone. "Well, I really don't know what to say. Uh, you can't do this alone. I want to thank God, first and foremost.

"Also, I want to thank my buddy, Kerry, for helping me get through it. Stand up, Kerry, let everyone see you." All I could think was how bad I wanted to call Matt a sorry bastard, but I stood up, looked around the room with a forged smile, and winked at Rachel.

"Thanks, man. Really ... thank you. Let's hear it for Kerry."

I wanted to rat him out, but I couldn't make myself do it. I was tired of being a part of his lie, though, even if I was the one that initiated it.

Alright... Shit.

2006-04-18T14:44:00.000-05:00

OK. I understand I've been a little infrequent lately. I've got some veritable excuses for my inconsistent blogging: I'm fucking busy. So, I figured I'd post a story I wrote. I'll publish it in parts because it's pretty long. Plus that'll give me a couple days to take a break, after which I'll come back full force. Bitches.

Church Camp (Pt. 1)
I was supposed to come back a better man, and in many ways I think I did. Perhaps, just not like one would expect. I've decided to lock away my bible, hang up the cloak I got for being in the church choir, and stop pretending to speak in tongues. And it wasn't as hard as I would have thought.

You see, where I grew up, going to church on Wednesdays was a social event, or maybe more accurately, an obligation, but it wasn't too bad all the time. Hell, I should even thank the Lord for a vast number of girls I dated through high school. The great majority of my high school "firsts" happened at a church function or was somehow related to church girls or church property. And, to make it worse, the youth pastor's son was the only one out of all of us that had a fake I.D., which was a little awkward at times.

"Hello?"
"Hello, Pastor Ryan, sir, is, uh, Matt home? Some of the guys are studying tonight and we wanted to make sure he was coming," I'd say with my voice trembling.
"No, he's not, Kerry. I think he might be on his way. Is there anything I can help you with?" he'd prod.
"Nope. Thanks. The Lord has already blessed me in so many ways, Pastor Ryan."
"That's what I like to hear, Kerry."

Matt wasn't as faithful as his dad. Occasionally, he and I would stay up late after everyone had either left or passed out and belligerently one-up each other over religion. He would ask me questions as though I were the pastor. He'd always harp about how arbitrary religion is, and wondered how different life would be if he and I were born in, say, Turkey. I'd just nod—I didn't even know what the hell "arbitrary" meant, but it sounded like a word I knew. Matt was a smart guy, and fun to be around. I was glad to know him, glad to know I wasn't the only one that questioned religion. I was also pleased because, being that he was the pastor's kid, he was fairly popular in our community and at our school; therefore, I was somewhat popular by default.

Church camp, however, was where you separated yourself from the rest of the pack—where you took a step toward abundant self-satisfaction, landing you somewhere between megalomaniac and holier-than-thou. According to statements from past attendees, you weren't zealous for God unless you packed up and trekked to the retreat in Silk Springs for a week.

I decided to go on a whim. My mother was thrilled at the idea. My father, on the other hand, was extremely wary—"Just what are you tryin' to pull, boy?"

"Stan, leave our son alone. He's trying to make a change in his life," my mom snapped. My dad is a no-bull-shit kind of guy. He saw right through me and suspected I was going for the wrong reasons. I'd convinced myself, if only temporarily, that I was going for the right reasons. I imagined coming back with riveting stories to tell friends of mine who didn't make it to camp—even if I embellished a little. They wouldn't know; they didn't go to church camp.

I packed enough clothes for two weeks. I had this weird phobia any time I went on trips. I thought of all the possible scenarios for when I might need to wear this or that; I ended up catching quips about my petticoat packing job. I went to Wal-Mart and purchased every travel-sized toiletry I could find—not necessarily because I needed to. But who buys anything at Wal-Mart because they needed to?

Silk Springs is about a two-and-a-half hour drive from Morristown. The bus was scheduled to head out at 5 a.m. I tried unsuccessfully to fall asleep around nine the night before and ended up nodding off around 2 a.m. Needless to say, when I arrived at Morristown First Assembly of God at 4:30 in the morning, the excitement that had kept me up until the wee hours of the morning had alluded me and left me sluggish and dangerously irritable. I figured I'd be able to catch a few zzzs on the way up to Silk Springs, hoping I wasn't the only one that had missed out on precious sleep.

We had no more than driven to the on-ramp for the interstate before Courtney, one of the student leaders of our youth group, turned around and, smiling ear to ear, sprang into song:

"I can only ee-ma-junn, what it will be like,
When I walk, by yer side..."

It wasn't long before others joined in. Their voices assembled to create a woeful, inharmonious chant. Right as I felt my ears were about to bleed, I started to doubt more and more this all-loving creature in the heavens above. To add to my despondency, images of corpses coruscated before my eyes, thanks to every funeral I'd attended that played the same song. I could hear Lindsey in the back, the girl who could actually sing, taking this moment as a sign that it was her time to shine for Jesus. She sat up in her chair, closed her eyes half-way to where it looked like her eyes were rolling back in her head, and sang her little heart out. Every thirty seconds or so, I could hear Chad, one of the youth group leaders whom I happened to go to school with, break into a fit of speaking in tongues.

"Shamalakalama. Shing, shong shibbitybobba!" he shouted over and over, with an adamant look of determination on his face. Thankfully, I'd brought my walkman.

I dozed in and out of sleep on the way there, sporadically interrupted by bursts of laughter and loud blasts of music from Derrick touting the latest Christian rock band he'd found. Christian rock—now that's an oxymoron if I've ever heard one.

The last time I woke, I asked where we were. The driver, who was hired and not a member of the church, quickly shouted: "Fifteen minutes! Only fifteen more minutes." I bet he could only ee-ma-junn what it was gonna be like when that bus ride ended.

Chad noticed I had taken off my headphones and asked my neighbor if he could trade seats with him.

"Kerry. Hey, man, listen up. Me and the guys have been talking, and we have an idea," he said, his eyes beaming like he was about to deliver groundbreaking truths that would rewrite history books.
"Dude, we're gonna fast."
"What?" I asked. I knew what he was talking about, but I just wanted to make sure that he did.
"Dude, a fast is when—"
"I know what a fast is, Chad. Why did you decide to do this?"
"Well," Chad said, then moved his eyes away from mine for a second, then looked back at me after he'd figured it out, "it's what Jesus did. We're gonna suffer like Jesus did."
"You're gonna suffer like Jesus did, huh? That's stupid. Suffering in those days was like being forced to eat cereal without milk, wipe your ass with a cactus, and watch non-stop reruns of 'Designing Women' all day. Times ten," I said.
"It is not stupid. So are you gonna do it or not? ... Matt's doing it."
"Is Matt my dad or something? I don't care. No, I'm not fasting."

By the time we reached the camp, twenty-eight of the thirty people on our bus had jumped on the bandwagon. The only two who hadn't were me and the bus driver, and he didn't really count. Everyone decided they wouldn't eat or drink anything except saltine crackers and water. I tried to talk to Matt about it, but he wouldn't. He simply replied, "I need this, man."

Campers exited the bus like it was 1968 and they were headed to an Elvis concert. The guys kept their cool, practically patting each other on the back with every comment, while the girls traded ideas of how fasting that week could affect them for the rest of their lives, all their voices turning into one giddy, high-pitched whine. I grabbed my suitcase and asked one of the counselors to direct me to our room.

Happy Fucking Monday

2006-04-17T10:02:00.000-05:00

Well, today really isn't that bad for me. Why, you ask? Tool's new single, Vicarious, was released today. I just listened to it on the radio. For all of you who aren't necessarily fans of Tool, kiss my white ass. I know they're dark. I know they're heavy. That's why I like them. They are one example of a band that can have major success without going mainstream. It also matters what you consider mainstream. I consider mainstream being a band that makes music for the sole purposed to make money.

Tool have extremely complex songs, off-beat time signatures, layered guitars, and lyrics that have myriad meanings. The first time I listened to them, I was impressed, but I didn't really think it was my style. Then I listened to it again. And again. It grows on you. Each time you listen to it, you hear something new. OK, I'm done talking about Tool.

• • •

This is proof that kids are born gay.

Did everyone have a wonderful Easter? That's fucking sweet. I'm amazed, just like Bill Hicks was, that people around the world celebrate Easter by telling our children that a giant bunny rabbit leaves chocolate eggs in the middle of the night. Is it just me, or did the Easter bunny not scare the shit out of you when you were a kid? That's fucking creepy.

Ever wonder what the Easter bunny does the other 364 days of the year? Check it out.

• • •

Weird thought for the day: I bet Maya Angelou was a whore in high school.

... Yeah, I'm goin' to hell.

Noooooooooooo!

2006-04-13T10:27:00.000-05:00

Anti-Porn Bill Targets Internet 'File Sharing'.

What's wrong with a 12-year-old getting a peek at what's to come? Hell, I think looking at pornography should be mandatory for all seventh graders. Fuck it, go ahead and pass out condoms, too. Might as well get used to them.

... Now you know why my bid for school superintendent failed.

GODDAMMIT. My nightmare has come true. It's official: "The Chappelle Show" will never be again. Ever. I really can't be mad, though. If you hear his reasons, you can tell it was a shitty situation. From what he's saying, he sounds like he felt he was selling himself out. Look:

"In a 10-page spread in the Esquire magazine arriving Saturday, he says he closed 'Chappelle' for reasons cultural, professional and personal.

Culturally: 'The bottom line was, white people own everything, and where can a black person go and be himself or say something that's familiar to him and not have to explain or apologize?'

Professionally: 'I felt like I was really pressured to settle for something that I didn't necessarily feel like I wanted.'

Personally: 'The thing about show business is that, in a way, it forces dysfunctional relationships in people.' "

... I think I even respect him more for saying that. It sucks, yes, but I wouldn't want any artist I like to be in that kind of situation. Essentially, his work would begin to suffer and it just wouldn't be as funny.

You know the corporate heads at Comedy Central are kicking themselves in the nuts right now. "Chappelle Show" had to be a cash cow for them.

Mmmm! A peanut butter-and-crack sandwich!

We'll miss you, Dave. Sniff. Sniff. Fuckin' Sniff.

What kinda name is Lacrosse anyway? ... French pussies

2006-04-12T09:32:00.000-05:00

Word on the street is these guys throw one helluva party.

This shit is really beginning to make me ill. First of all, someone needs to explain to me what a female exotic dancer was doing at a lacrosse team party. I thought only homosexuals played lacrosse. Anywho.

Quotes before the DNA tests came back:

“For me, this is not simply a case of sexual violence or just a case of racism. It’s a case of racialized sexual violence, meaning if it had been a white woman in that room, it would not have gone down the same way,” claimed Mark Anthony Neal, an African Studies professor.

“Last weekend was Duke’s minority recruitment,” said local resident Betty Greene. “What a welcome for minority students to walk into this story. I’m trying not to call it racial terrorism, but that’s really what it is.”

Just fucking great. You know, I've heard people say, "Man, if that was black dudes and a white girl, they'd already be sentenced." OK, so what do you think you're (you as in NAACP and other African-Americans who are making this a race issue) doing when you say shit like this? Firstly, you're setting this country back 40 years in terms of race relations. Secondly, you're committing the same persecution you accuse white people of, immediately pointing fingers without hearing out the whole story.

Nevertheless, you should be over this whole racial profiling thing. Remember that guy, oh, what's his name? Oh, Kobe Bryant. Not only did they find Kobe's DNA on a white girl's panties, they also found her blood. And he GOT OFF. So. Shut. The. Fuck. Up. You set yourselves up to be broken down.

(In case you haven't heard, the DNA tests came back. The results couldn't match DNA with one—not even ONE—of the 47 players tested.)

I heard a clip from a press conference today in which the Rev. Jesse Jackson said something along the lines of, "There's a history there between white men and black women. ... It conjures up older, much deeper issues. Yada yada yada." Obviously he's referring to the fact that many plantation owners allegedly raped black women. (Note: They weren't all raped. Also, African-Americans, when you make fun of one of your own for being black as night, they should actually be laughing at you. They, most likely, don't have any slave owner blood in them. So think about that.)

Well, Mr. Jackson, I have question for you. What exact experiences did YOU or your immediate family have that this situation brings up? Oh, it was your ancestors? Did they tell you about it, or did you read it for your African-American Studies course in college? There is no relation between the lacrosse team incident and what happened to slaves decades—and even centuries—ago. You want to find something it relates to?

Anyone remember Tawana Brawley? In 1987, she claimed that six white law enforcement officers abducted and raped her. Those claims and others that her attackers had scrawled racial insults on her body and smeared her with feces were declared a hoax by a grand jury that also exonerated the man at the center of the accusations, then-assistant district attorney Steven Pagones.

Listen to what an African-American "Reverend" said about you, Mr. Jackson:

"Jesse ... is really just a David Duke in black skin," —the Reverend Jesse Lee Peterson.

Couldn't have said it better myself.

I just like this picture.

All the pussy-whipped guys say, "HO!"

2006-04-10T09:17:00.000-05:00

What are you waiting for? I'm not gonna say it. No. OK, but real quick. ho...

"I [heart] my wife" ... What's the first thing that goes through your mind when you see that bumper sticker on a car? I don't know about you, but I automatically assume numerous things when I see that:

• The douchebag is a Michael Bolton fan.
• Probably watches Oprah when he's not at work.
• Has the smallest engine available for his vehicle.
• Washes his hands every time he sneezes.
• Is better dressed than his wife.
• Shaves his legs and arm pits.
• Cheats on his wife.

Now, women, I know you don't like to hear stuff like this, but listen. The more pressure you put on a guy to not cheat on you, the more likely it is that he will. Just think when you were a teenager ... This really applies to everything. Rebellion, I guess. When someone tells you not to do something, it makes you want to do it much more. Take, for example, all these little church girls that turn into whores, or take up heavy drug use. They only do it because it was forbade by their parents. It turns into a thrill—"it" meaning drugs, drinking, or even sex.

So, anyway, yeah, umm.. I just laugh when I see those bumper stickers. Or even the religious ones: "God loves you": "God is not a republican"; or even "Jesus is my best friend." Aww... Jesus is my bestest friend. Well, hot damn! You lucky sonuvabitch. He won't answer my phone calls... bastard. In fact, many of the I [heart] my wife bumper stickers are given away by Promise Keepers, these people that hold religious rallies for men across the country. What are you supposed to bring to these events? According to the Web site, "A Bible, pen, a friend and a readiness to release the raw power of your heart." Whoa. The RAW power of yer' heart. I'm in.

Here's my idea for a bumpersticker: "I [heart] my girlfriend ... except for when she's raggin' or when she gets home from 'girls' night out,' where her friends have been talking about how horrible of a person I am. Fuck her friends." ... Or something like that.

MSB00 and I are thinking of taking up poetry.

2006-04-07T09:53:00.000-05:00

Poetry, do-ih-tree.
We think we have it figured out. From studying such great poets as Lil' Jon and the Eastside Boys and Dr. Seuss, it's fair enough to say we've gleaned enough knowledge of poetry to last us through the century. So without further adieu, I give to you, Spencer and msboo. ... It's a poetry slam, BITCH.

msboo:
How come you seem so close
Yet you’re really so far
every night now I put on my hose
and go to a bar.

Fire! What fire
You extinguished my heat
When you left me for
The streets

And now in sorrow
I await tomorrow
So far
In a bar.

• • •

Why is the silence so loud
Why are my tears so dry
Why are the winters so hot
Summers so cold
Life so short
Death so old?

• • •

Cigarette—burning.
Beer bottle—awaiting
Oblivion descending
Heaven receding
Hell inviting

Me! Frightening!

• • •
Spencer...

Since night is light
and dogs like to fight
I might have to love
your sister in the night.

Since night is light
and I felt a slight
coming from your mouth
what bitch? wanna fight?

• • •

Sex is pure
So is a cure
For cancer?
Give me an answer
Now bitch
Before I use
The craft of witch
To bury your goddamn
Dog in the ditch
Bitch.

• • •

Silence is loud
What's said is told
Young is old
Shame is proud

Switchblades are dull
Fat is thin
Excitement is lull
I'll never use
Oxymorons again.

• • •

You said I was ugly
You are
Not so much ugly
as you are
Stupid
and smug..ly.

I said you love me
and you said no
It hurts like a knife
going through a wood flo'.

Tell me the answers
if I ask
And only
Only
if I ask.
Bitch.

• • •

If J.K. Rowling
were my mom
I'd put a
Spell
On her bitch ass.

... Thanks everyone. I'm glad msboo and I could open up and let out our true feelings with some fucking kick-ass poetry. Stay tuned, as poetry has overcome my emotions and will be spilling out my pores ... whores. Chores. Doors. I want mores.

Harry Potter is the Devil's fiction

2006-04-06T09:55:00.000-05:00

Look in my crystal ball. Now touch it. Yeah, that's the spot. Oooh, Momma like!

Stop the goddamn presses. J.K. Rowling has something to say:

"There is only one thing that annoys me about living in Edinburgh - well, two, but I'm pretty much resigned to the weather now. Why is it so difficult to buy paper in the middle of town? What is a writer who likes to write longhand supposed to do when she hits her stride and then realizes, to her horror, that she has covered every bit of blank paper in her bag? Forty-five minutes it took me, this morning, to find somewhere that would sell me some normal, lined paper. And there's a university here! What do the students use? Don't tell me laptops, it makes me feel like something out of the eighteenth century."

OK, Jackass. That whole writing longhand thing is acceptable ... if you're Amish. That whole statement, which can be found on her Web site (www.jkrowling.com), reaks of, what's the word? ... Pomposity! I hate when I'm talking to a writer and they tell me they write longhand. What do you expect me to say? "Wow, Stupid Writer, that's admirable." Fucking dumbass. Save yourself and your freaky little readers some time and use a goddamn laptop. You know, if something I do "makes me feel like something out of the eighteenth century," I'll probably stop fuckin' doin' it.

Am I the only one that finds J.K. Rowling just a little bit creepy? No, a lot creepy. The first time I saw her, I thought she was pretty attractive in a hey-Brian-can-I-stay-at-your-house-tonight-to-see-your-mom-in-her-underwear kind of way. Not anymore. She just gets on my nerves.

"But, Spencer, look how many kids she got to pick up a book and read." I don't care. It's not like it's great writing or anything that's thought provoking. I mean, I can't expect 10-year-old kids to read William Faulkner, I know. But goddamn, what's wrong with the classics like The Chronicles of Narnia? C.S. Lewis was perfect for me when I was a kid. Those books were enough to spark my imagination, yet not so overbearing in my mind that I became estranged from societal values and norms.

I'm glad I don't go to school with those Harry Potter kids anymore. I'm afraid I'd have to bring out the paintball gun again. (Yes, I am an emotion-deprived, hateful bastard. So what. Bitch.)

Goddamn this shit is hilarious

2006-04-04T19:46:00.000-05:00

There are no weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, Chuck Norris lives in Oklahoma.

Serious post... Watch out!

2006-04-04T13:49:00.000-05:00

There are certain perks that come along with being a 20-year-old working on a college campus. I see people I know all the time. I also have the chance to meet new people every day. However, college campuses are the targets of many activist groups, many of whom I agree with and many I don't.

I understand how it's everyone's (and anyone's) right to say what he or she wants to say to whomever he or she chooses to say it to. Don't, on the other hand, think that shoving your beliefs in my face will draw accord on my part—hell, you're lucky if you even get my attention.

Walking in from lunch today, I noticed a crowd of people gathered, chatting, holding up enormous posters that I couldn't clearly see. As I paced closer, I clearly saw the two posters a handful of people were hoisting. One poster had a picture of a dead fetus, or what was a dead fetus, showing the bloody head separated from the body, and above the picture, in bold, black letters, was printed "Abortion." On the other, a picture of a healthy baby, one that could presumably be seen on a Gerber commercial, was shown with the word "Life" printed above it.

There were men, women and children of all ages with this pro-life group. One little girl, whom I can't seem to get out of my head, that was toting the "Abortion" poster couldn't have been older than five—the poster was taller than she.

What kills me is how easily I've found it to be to infuriate me. An elderly woman, holding the "Abortion" sign and smiling from ear to ear, tried to stop me as I walked by and give me a pocket-sized bible. Without looking at her I told her to get her hand away from me. As weird as this sounds, I hate hating people based on their beliefs. I have friends—not close friends, but friends—that are Christians. They know not to even bring it up around me.

But, honestly, right now I am sick to my stomach, and not because of the grotesque photos. I'm sick at how hateful I can be, and how I'm totally helpless. Abortion is one of those issues that arises way too much passion in me. I'm not a woman. It doesn't directly affect me. But it affects my mom. One day it could affect my young niece.

It makes me sick to think that 80 percent of Americans (supposedly) are Christians. Of all the religions in the world that are seemingly peaceful and non-invasive—Judaism, Buddhism, Islam (moderates), Hinduism and others, I'm stuck in the country where eight out of ten people claim to be a member of the most supercilious, dangerously ethnocentric, and downright inane religion of all.

If you really want to show the difference between life and death, you should show much more than dead fetuses and healthy babies. You forgot the picture of the 12-year-old girl who's been raped by her step-father on a regular basis for the last five years. You forgot the picture of crackwhores. You forgot the picture of Hitler. And Osama bin Laden. But rationality and logical reasoning aren't primary concerns for these groups. (Yes, I'm saying they're insanely idiotic.)

We're practically setting ourselves back 100 years, in terms of progressive thinking, each time a pro-life rally is held. No one—that's right, no one—can provide a sound argument against abortion without bringing religion into the picture. Don't tell me it's murder. As harsh as it sounds, I'd much rather have a fetus aborted than a grown human being executed for a crime.

I dream of the day when Christianity is irrelevant in the ways of government. I understand how religion adds balance to millions of people's lives. Some people need it. For meaning. For hope. For answers. And, mostly, for emotional insurance.

Some people (like me), on the contrary, don't.

This kid ... goddamn. I'm speechless.

2006-04-04T10:38:00.000-05:00

Watch the clip of this interview with President Bush's nephew, Pierce Bush. He looks waaaaaay too much like George W. I'm thinking our president was the milk-man for his brother's neighborhood.

Let's play some frisbee... Fuck yeah!

2006-04-03T10:42:00.000-05:00

To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

First and foremost, I need to get something off my chest:

GODDAMN YOU, UCLA. I wish you'd all stand in a circle and play frisbee with machine saw blades. Did anyone catch that game? LSU acted like they didn't even want to play.

• • •

Since when is George Clooney relevant? Despite how ludicrous George Clooney's mentioning was in the last South Park episode, they presented a clear message of how extremely outrageous these jackfucks in Hollywood live their lives and think of themselves.

Here is, word for word, George Clooney's acceptance speech at the Academy Awards, where he won an Oscar for best supporting actor: "Wow. Wow. All right, so I'm not winning director. It's the funny thing about winning an Academy Award, it will always be synonymous with your name from here on in. It will be Oscar winner, George Clooney. Sexiest Man Alive, 1997. ... I would say that, you know, we are a little bit out of touch in Hollywood every once in a while. I think it's probably a good thing. We're the ones who talk about AIDS when it was just being whispered, and we talked about civil rights when it wasn't really popular. And we, you know, we bring up subjects. This Academy, this group of people gave Hattie McDaniel an Oscar in 1939 when blacks were still sitting in the backs of theaters. I'm proud to be a part of this Academy. Proud to be part of this community, and proud to be out of touch. And I thank you so much for this."

His audacity bewilders me. He's exactly right: Hollywood is out of touch with society. Therefore, he should take his fucking gold statue, salute his phonies and cronies, and go back to his seat and drink a wine cooler. "We're the ones who talk about AIDS when it was just being whispered"??? Well, excuse us, George, did the selection committee for the Nobel Prize slight you? The saddest thing about it is, however, that there are people in this country that take heed to everything these people say. Like they actually give a goddamn about anyone or anything except for which after part they're attending.

I wish these media whores would stop acting like they want to change the world and continue being the little dancing monkeys that they are.

Even though I think the whole rebellious-girl-trying-to-get-attention thing is pretty much beating a dead horse, I liked what Fiona Apple said during her acceptance speech at the MTV awards. "This world is bullshit, and you shouldn't model your life about what you think that you think we think is cool, and what we're wearing, and what we're saying and everything. Go with yourself."

... But I did have to go pick up those shoes Usher was wearing at the Grammy's. I mean, they were sooooo cool.

Cutie

2006-03-31T10:52:00.000-06:00

I don't have anything to write about today, so just point your finger at this guy and laugh. It'll make you feel better. Promise.

Smugidity

2006-03-30T09:46:00.000-06:00

To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

I just made up a word. Smugidity. In case you're wondering, Yes, I watched the newest South Park last night. And it was MUCH more fulfilling than last week's episode. If you didn't see it, Kyle's dad gets a hybrid car and becomes a smug asshole—he closes his eyes when he talks and loves the smell of his own farts. (I'm starting to realize that maybe it isn't as funny when you read it.)

Anywho (I brought up Smugidity for a reason), you guys remember when I bitched about a $10 sandwich? OK, I've changed my mind. Give me a ten-fucking-dollar sandwich any day. Last night for our anniversary, my girlfriend and I went to this Brazilian restaurant we'd heard about for a while, Gaucho's Grill. I should've seen it coming, if only its location (in West Little Rock, the snobby part of town) was any indication.

Fifty-four goddamn dollars for me and my girl to eat—and we drank WATER. And not only was it expensive, but the "Smugidity" in there was borderline unbearable. You go in there and they give you a plate and something to drink, then a bunch of people walk around and bring you all these different kinds of meat. They act like you're stupid when you don't know the spices they put on the lamb rotisserie. The waitresses are snobby. The owner walks around and asks everyone how they're doing. I told him my back hurt and I had a rash on the back of my leg that just wouldn't go away, and he just looked at me blankly and moved on. You asked motherfucker.

I remember saying to my girlfriend, "The smug is so thick in here I can barely breathe." Now that I think about it, our waitress did sort of close her eyes when she talked to us. But instead of smelling their own farts, I think they smelled each others' farts.

Big Brother is watching

2006-03-28T15:28:00.000-06:00

To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

You know, you'd be surprised how easy it is (sometimes) to contact fairly famous people. It's something I learned during my days at the newspaper, but it's becoming more and more evident now that I'm working for a nationally circulated magazine. It's got to be a little scary (I would think) for these notable politicians, huge movie stars, professional athletes, etc. that anyone with a brain and a quick wit could find their e-mail or mail address and/or phone number.

... And I thought they were always paranoid because of the massive amounts of cocaine they ingested! What the fuck was I smoking?

Another thing you learn, though, is how rude people can be. I thought I was rude, but these folks have me beat to hell. I've kinda learned tricks of the trade, though. Say I'm trying to contact Hillary Clinton, I'll look on all her Web sites and look for different names of people I might could contact. Usually they don't have phone numbers for those names—just e-mails. So when I call the main number, I'll just say, "Hi, I'm [blobbity blah], can you forward me to Sam please?" Works every time.

• • •

The New York Times published an article (either today, or it's coming out tomorrow) about this "secret" memo, which reveals President Bush and British Prime Minister Tony Blair plotted to provoke war in Iraq. News flash: Thank you, Captain Obvious.

Anyone remember the Downing Street Memo? Despite the magnitude of said memos, they never reach the heights I would expect them to—most likely because numerous media conglomerates (including Fox News) refuse to give the stories proper or sufficient air time, all the while downplaying the severity of the situations.

Why do people choose to neglect the idea that George Bush and his cabinet lied—flat out lied—to everyone? And even when people do come to that realization, they usually ask, "Well, what the hell can we do about it now?" Impeach that sonuvabitch. OK, Washington was in disarray for months over the Clinton impeachment—and it had absolutely nothing (nada, nil) to do with our country or the way the president was running our country at the time. In this instance our president has lied to everyone (yes, that means you) about his reasons for going to war, and even those presumptions have shown themselves to be totally false.

I know, it's getting old. But it's not beating a dead horse if the fucking horse isn't dead.

Mind-erasers

2006-03-27T09:19:00.000-06:00

The boy is bad, I tell you. I'm thinking an LSU/Florida national championship, with LSU pulling it off in a really really close game.

To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Wow. Is it just me, or doesn't it suck when you go out on a Sunday night and drink so much that, when you wake up in the morning, you forgot you went anywhere and wonder why your tongue feels like sandpaper, you're out of cigarettes, and wondering how in the hell all those crumbs got in your bed? Maybe it's just me. All I have to say is that xanax and liquid cocaines are a deadly combination. Like bad.

Well, despite getting two out of the Final Four right, my bracket is officially on its way to the outskirts of Pulaski County, where I'm sure it'll find a cozy place, nestled somewhere between some baby's dirty diaper and and old t-shirt dampened with beer-puke. I did have Florida and LSU in the Final Four, which places me in first place in my group on the ESPN challenge (out of over 300 people). However, overall, my rank is, like, 75,000th. Do they give any prizes for 75,000th place? A keychain or something? Damn.

• • •

How's everyone been? I've kinda been down lately, hence the sporadic posts. But it's the weather and my girlfriend. Her family's going through a lot of problems and, when you've been with someone for almost five years on and off, they kinda become your problems. But I'm all better now. I got outta town this weekend for a little bit, and I need that.

• • •

Oh yeah, and to answer that question lingering in everybody's mind, I got ARRESTED for an unpaid traffic ticket. I didn't think it was everybody's business, but I mean shit. I've gotten numerous e-mails from people. "So WHAT did you get arrested for?" Like I'm hiding something or something.

• • •

I watched the encore episode of the latest South Park where Chef comes back, leaves, then ultimately falls off the bridge, is mauled by a mountain lion and bear, and shot. I must say, it's a lot funnier the second time. A lot. During the first time I saw it, every time I heard Chef talk, It just kinda fucked me up because they were piecing together his lines, but once you get past that, it's pretty hilarious.

I'm out. Maybe more later.

Jailhouse Rock

2006-03-23T10:11:00.000-06:00

Memories, memories. Ah, your favorite blogger got arrested last night. No, no, I wasn't following the Mt. Saint Mary's track-and-field team in my Jeep, whooping and hollering. For those of you that've never been arrested, it's a pretty humbling experience.

My favorite part is when the cop backhandedly consoles you: "Now, if you're good, I'll put these cuffs on a little loose. If you're an asshole, I'll make sure you have bruises on your wrists for the next three weeks." No matter what the hell I say or don't say, I always get three clicks. Three clicks=bruises. I kinda have girly wrists, so I like to think they don't mean to put them on that tight.

Other favorite part? When they put you in the back of the car, (most of the time) if you look above the backside door's window, there's a microphone. I guess it's there to catch people admitting to stuff while the cop is outside searching their car or something. I usually sing into it. While Mr. Police Man was outside talking to my friends, I started singing Jailhouse rock as passionately as I could muster. "Went to a party in the county jail, dahdahdah... and he began to wail? dahdahdahdah dah dah ding. doodoodoodoo let's sing. Everybody let's rock. Everybody let's rock! Everybody in the whole cell block was dancing to the jailhouse rock! Ro-ro-rock!" Now that I think about it, I probably should have sung the national anthem.

See, there are two things you can do when you get arrested: Freak out, get pissed off and yell; or just say, fuck, I'm going to jail, my dad (or friend or whomever you'd call) better pick up when I call, goddammit. The way you talk to a cop is the way he's gonna treat you. You'd be surprised what cops will say when they know you're not a fucking idiot. I had a cop open up to me one time about problems he was having with his wife. He found out I worked for the Democrat-Gazette and thought I was really smart, so he just opened up. I really wanted to tell him to eat shit and die, but I played it off. He still kept my thirty pack.

• • •

In other news, Les Claypool from Primus was voted the coolest-fucking-weird-ass-dude-in-the-world's imaginary friend today. Or somethin' like that.

• • •
You know Matt or Trey one probably farted when they were taking this picture. They are never serious.
Anybody catch the new South Park last night? I was a little let down. You could tell they wanted to fuck Chef over because he left, but I think Scientologists came out looking the worst. It was still funny, but it could've been better, I thought.

Ten-fucking-dollar sandwich

2006-03-22T14:15:00.000-06:00

I just ate a ten-dollar sandwich. Excuse me while I kick myself in the balls.

... (waiting) ...

Ah, fuck it. I'll do it later. But it looked soooo good on television. "Try Quizno's new Prime Rib sub, blobbity fucking blah." If you've seen the commercial, you know you want to try it. Don't lie. Liars go to hell. Muahahaha.

The thing is, it wasn't that bad. The fuckin problem? you may ask. It wasn't that good. Not ten-dollar good. Look, if I'm gonna spend ten goddamn Georges on a sandwich. It better be the best sandwich I've ever tasted, or do some really awesome trick. All I could think about while I was eating it was how I spent ten bucks on this shit—that's not what it should've been like.

I should've said: "Wow, this is a hella good sandwich. I'm hella gonna tell my friends about it, 'cause it's hella good." And you'd say, "Spencer, why are you saying 'hella'? It sounds super gay." And I'd say, "Cause I'm hella cool. Bitch."

• • •

It starts tomorrow. My baby (her name's Madness—March Madness that is) is back. Awwww, I missed her so much. So much. I was chatting with a new e-mail friend (whose 'hella' cool), and we were talking about how numerous friends scoff at the thought that we like sports. It makes me wonder. Is there a certain IQ where interest in competitive sports in at its nadir, as well as a certain (lower) IQ where the interest is more than an interest? More than an interest, an obsession?

I know people (like you, Lindsay) that hate sports. But it's hella cool as long as you (not your, Lindsay) don't look down on me for liking sports. Explain to me how its stupid to be able to let yourself go for a minute and not be so serious all the fucking time and get fucking plastered and watch sports. Even if you do provide a decent explanation, I'll still be a hella big sports fan. 'Cause it's hella cool.

In case you can't tell, that's an "I care" face. Bitch.

2006-03-21T09:16:00.000-06:00

I went to the Catholic church near my house yesterday. It went something like this:

Me: Forgive me, dude, 'cause I'm sinning. Like, bad.

Father (figure): Child, what is it? Tell daddy what you did.

Me: You ready?

Father (figure): Ready as I'll ever be.

Me: OK. Let me see here. Well, I hold this hatred inside of me that I can't seem to let go. It eats at me, perpetuating my hatred for people in general, but really, it all starts with this one guy. He's not a bad guy, I imagine. But then I think he could be. He acts like he cares, then I know it's just a front.

Father (figure): Who is it, child? Is there anything—and, I mean ANYthing—I can do?

Me: No, no. But, it's Maury. Povich, I think is his last name. I hate that motherfucker. I mean, I want to like him because I think he generally cares for the people that appear on his show. But I know it's a lie! It's all lies. He doesn't give a shit if my mom has three daughters from three different men, who ended up being the minister at our local church, our mailman and her boss—who are BROTHERS. He doesn't give a fuck. He only cares that his teeth are so white that they get that purplish hue when light touches them. He doesn't care that I was a troubled kid and had a drill sergeant yell at me, whose voice smelled like dog patch. He doesn't fucking care, does he! Tell me it's true, father. Tell me!

Father (figure): Are you fuckin' kidding me? Listen, kid, I just had a 12-year-old girl tell me she gives BJs for adderall. And you hate a daytime T.V. host?

Me: Alright, bitch. First, I'm not a kid, or your fuckin' child. I came to you with a problem. And, by God, I want it fixed!

Father (figure): Problem? We're gonna have a fuckin' problem if you curse at me one more time.

Me: Ah, shush. Fuck it. I knew you'd be no help. I just want to know one thing.

Father (figure): What? Bitch.

Me: Would you've been nicer if I told you I liked kiddie porn?

Stanpac

2006-03-20T21:17:00.000-06:00

I got this from Charlie's blog.

Good mornin' (2:47 p.m.)

2006-03-20T13:20:00.000-06:00

Sorry, guys. I was sick a couple days last week and out of the office. I have a computer and Internet service at home now, but I can't find it in me to write for my blog when an abundant source of midget porn is waiting to be tapped. (No, I don't really look at porn. Well...no.)

I'm thinking about submitting myself to drug rehab. Seriously. (I'm sure you all saw this coming.) I can't take it anymore. After approximately 9:30 p.m. last night, I lost it. Thursday? I fuckin' have to wait 'til Thursday to see third-round games. Are you F*CKING KIDDING? I'm forced to watch ESPN Classic games until THURSDAY. What the fuck am I going to do with myself?

I call my friends. They're no support. My team, the Arkansas Razorbacks (of course), lost. My bracket is shot to hell. I might as well have taken $30, or just six five-dollar bills, and pissed all over them, flushed them down the toilet, seen that they're stuck, then slipped on my fluorescent yellow, arm-length rubber gloves and ripped them to shreds in pissy toilet water. At least I would've be having withdrawals right now, rather I'd be carrying a bottle of hand sanitizer.

Anyone feel my pain? I mean ... it's re-damn-diculous.

• • •

On another note, George Bush, today, announced that he is now a member of the Church of Scientology.

• • •

I hate Mormons. Yeah, I do. Like, really bad. Prejudiced? I know. Fuck off. I hate 'em. What'd they do to me? They took wearing ties with short-sleeve, oxford button-up shirts out of style is what the fuck they did. Bitches.

Mr. Preacher Man

2006-03-15T13:48:00.000-06:00

"You, son, are going to hell," he said to the guy wearing a Pi Kappa Alpha shirt. "Fraternity brothers are drunkards who abuse women and look at pornography."

(I'm not making this shit up.)

The preacher man, probably in his mid-20s, is dressed in his Sunday best (on a Wednesday), wearing a maroon Oxford dress shirt, fashionable tie, and weathered black shoes. As one would suspect, he's fair-skinned, despite a reddened face, with blond hair and, presumably, blue eyes—he was standing a good 20 feet away from me.

"You have yet to see happiness until you have invited Jesus into your life," he shouts. "Jesus is alive. He is standing next to you as we speak."

Really? No shit? Jesus! You sneaky bastard, come over here and show yourself. ... Hello? Somebody say something. Anybody?

This preacher man has this aura about him—it reaks of accomplishment (futility) and self-worth (hubris) and, even, intellect (ignorance). He is one that will never question why.

Reminds me of a song: Judith, by A Perfect Circle:

"you're such an inspiration for ways that i will never ever choose to be.
oh so many ways for me to show you how your savior has abandoned you.
Thank(fuck) your god, your lord, your christ,
he did this, took all you had and left you this way.
still you pray, never stray, never taste of the fruit. never thought to question why.
it's not like you killed someone.
it's not like you drove a hateful spear into his side.
praise the one who left you broken down and paralyzed.
he did it all for you.
oh so many ways for me to show you how your dogma has abandoned you.
pray to your christ, to your god.
never taste of the fruit,
never stray, never break,
never choke on a lie,
even though he's the one who did this to you
thought to question why
it's not like you killed someone.
it's not like you drove a spiteful spear into his side.
talk to jesus christ as if he knows the reasons why he
did this all to you.
he did it all for you."

Yo yo yo (yeah, it looks just as stupid as it sounds)

2006-03-14T11:53:00.000-06:00

To: Sufferers of Missing White Girl Syndrome
From: The Doc
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

I just finished reading Anderson Cooper's 360 degrees blog, for which he, himself, never submits ANYthing. The writer today posted on an interesting topic: the alleged "Missing White Woman Syndrome" found in the media today.

"That was the phrase invoked by Sheri Parks, a professor of American studies at the University of Maryland, College Park, during our interview yesterday," according to the blog. She alleges that the media neglects reporting cases of missing "women who are black, Latino, Asian, old, fat, or ugly."

My initial reaction was, "Shut up, bitch. Start a significant argument with someone about the gap in standardized test scores between whites and minorities." However, the more and more I think about it, she's kinda right, but I still think there are bigger issues to tackle.

Honestly, she's fighting for no cause. Who would benefit from constant national exposure in the case of every missing persons case? No one. Most (and probably all) missing persons cases are local, and therefore, are broadcast locally. When those attempts are fruitless, often the story hits the national media. Stories like Natalie Holloway and Laci Peterson hold more weight in national media because they generate more attention—regardless of race or physical appearance.

In some instances, say Elian Gonzales, I think that argument holds merit. Face it, America wouldn't have been as captivated by that story if he had two heads or buck teeth and a Jew 'fro. That's not subjectivity on the media's part, it's merely an editor who knows what people like to hear. Blame the American public, not the media.

• • •

March Madness has begun, thank you, KRISHNA! I know many of you could care less about sports, but I'm sorry. I am a college basketball and football fanatic. Sue me.

Holla,
Spencer

Proud to be an Amurrican

2006-03-10T11:13:00.000-06:00

To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

"I'm committed to strengthening our relationship with the UAE [United Arab Emirates] and explaining why it's important to Congress and the American people." --George Bush

Thanks, George. 'Preciate it. I'm so glad you are taking your sweet ass time to explain why things are important to me, a member of the American people. I'm eternally grateful for your dumbing down to explain things to Congress and me. Without you, I'd be lost.

He reminds me of a third grade teacher trying to explain the difference between apples and oranges.

Bush: "You see, Amurrica, apples are red. Oranges, on the other hand, are orange. See the difference?"

The classroom responds collectively: "Yes, Mister Bush."

Bush: "Good, now go do something good for your country. You kids know that towel-head in Ms. Hoover's class? Kick his ass at recess, OK?"

Classroom: "Yes, Mister Bush."

• • •

In other news, MC Hammer announced today that he is gay.

• • •

Have any of you gotten a chance to watch Walk the Line yet? I thought it was a pretty good movie. I think I went into it, though, expecting way too much. I wasn't let down, but I guess my expecations were brought back down to earth. All I could think about the whole movie was how sexy Reese Witherspoon sounds with a twangy voice. Talk to daddy, Reese. Talk to daddy.

Equal or better

2006-03-09T10:49:00.000-06:00

Hot damn! I'm on TeeVee!
To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

OK, listen up, God. I know I don't believe in you, but if you do exist, will you please tell me why the fuck you created George W. Bush? Please. I'm begging, and I don't beg, except for sex but that's another story. Huh? Part of your plan? Ahhhh, blow me.

"Bush: Levees to be 'equal or better.'" Equal? That's real smuckin' fart George. I can hear Ralph Nagin now: "Uh, Mr., uh, President. Well, I mean, if they are gonna be, uh, equal, then, uh, won't they still, uh, collapse?"

Bush: "Listen here, Ralphie-boy. In the world of politics, I am daddy. And you know what? Daddy is gonna do and say what he wants to. Mmkay? So shut up. Bitch."

Nagin: "Sir, yes, sir."

Laura Bush: "George! Fix your pants. What the fuck, are you waiting for a goddamn flood?"

Bush: "Laura, why do you always do this in front of people?! Gah. ... Is that better?"

Laura: "Yes, that's better. And, ah, don't ever raise your voice at me again. I will kick you out again, and judging from the way you came back last time, I'm guessing you don't wanna go stay with Dick again, do you?"

Bush: "If I have to sleep on the street, I don't care. I will never stay at Dick's house again. I told you what he did to me. I still have nightmares about him. You know he doesn't wear underwear, right?"

Laura: "Neither do I and you don't seem to have a fuckin' problem with it."

Bush: "Yeah, but your balls aren't bulging out either."

Laura: "'Nuff said."

... Yeah, George. Go ahead and piss away our money to build levees that will, yet again, fail the city and take the lives of even more people. That makes about as much sense as a blind and deaf tour guide. Idiot.

Best college essay eva

2006-03-08T14:02:00.000-06:00

This can't be real. But it doesn't matter, it's hilarious. Read this essay: Planes, Trains, and Plantains.

Fuckin' weirdo

2006-03-08T13:09:00.000-06:00

To: Unsuspecting reader
From: Punk-ass writer
Date: Two days before the day after tomorrow
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

I love really weird people. Whether their weirdness is acquired through time or a birth defect, they spice up the world and, oftentimes, can make you feel normal, which is a good thing. Take Spongebob Square Ear here for instance.

That's one of those things you look at and say, "Damn. I'm so glad I'm not you. ... So, um, can you, like, hear better with that thing?"

Don't get me wrong, I'm weird. I'm fairly sure you're weird, too. Come on. You know you take off your shirt and recite lines from The Terminator in the mirror when no one else is around. Come on, I know you probably fart in bed and force the covers over your unwilling partner's face and laugh hysterically. Don't lie.

I have a bunch of weird friends. I have one friend that treats his dog like a goddamn person—honestly. He gives her four baths a week, which is probably more than he takes, and gives her the window seat in his single cap truck no matter who rides with him. Then I have the one who can make himself throw up and used it all the time in high school to get out of class. Then I have the friend that keeps count of the mile markers on the interstate and becomes extremely perturbed when he loses count (usually when he's drunk).

Have you ever been just flat-out caught doing something weird? I remember when I was a kid that I loved to sing the national anthem. I don't know why. I had a decent voice. Hell, I even sang in my CHURCH choir. Can you believe that shit? Anyway, so I'm sitting in my dad's truck at my aunt's house, acting like I'm listening to the radio until all the people go inside. After I see the door close, I started. I'd always draw it out, you know, and act like I was in Boyz II Men. I got to the hardest part for guys: "And the rockets..." Then, as I was preparing for eeeeeeeeerrRED GLARE, one of my punk-ass cousins popped open the truck door and scared me so much I thought I shat myself. Horrifying, I tell you.

Also, when I thought I wanted to be a kickboxer, I'd shadow box when i thought no one was home. One day, my brother and his friends were smoking weed on our balcony outside, which has a window that allows you to see into the living room. I was probably 8 years old, and I just started goin' at it. I mean, I'm getting embarrassed now just thinking about it. Just think of what I felt like when I heard a knock on the window and looked up and my older, cooler brother and his friends were falling on the fucking floor laughing at me—all without fucking up rotation.

Don't act like I'm weird. I know you're worse. Bitches.

Sweaty McGruff

2006-03-07T10:16:00.000-06:00

My sweaty-arm-pit brethren. Rise and take over the world with your repugnant malodor.

To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

It's confession time, and why I feel so comfortable letting tons of people (more like about 80) know this, I'm not sure. However, I'm certain that if I've met you in person, you've noticed and just not said anything. But I suffer from hyperhidrosis, or excessive sweating. It fucking sucks, too. But I know there are people out there just like me. Come on. Show yourself. Lift up your arms with pride.

Mine's kinda weird, though. A lot of times, I'll only sweat under one arm, which I think is fucking crazy. But look at some of these stats. I didn't know I was one in 7.8 million with the problem. (I really believe I'm gonna regret writing this shit. Oh well, laugh all you want. I'll shove your face in my arm pit next time I see you.)

• Hyperhidrosis, or excessive sweating, affects a much larger proportion of the U.S. population than previously reported, according to new research.
• An estimated 7.8 million people in the United States suffer from hyperhidrosis.
• People suffering from hyperhidrosis experience excessive sweating on the underarms, palms of hands, soles of feet and the face, to name a few places.
• Cold, wet handshakes, soiled or damaged shirts, papers and shoes are just some of the symptoms of hyperhidrosis.
Anxiety and stress often accompany hyperhidrosis, as well.
• The results [of a survey] suggest that in axillary hyperhidrosis, sweating often impedes normal daily activities and can result in occupational, emotional, psychological, social and physical impairment in a substantial proportion of individuals.
• Prior to this survey, there was very little research available regarding the prevalence or impact of hyperhidrosis.
• The prevalence rates were significantly higher among people 25-64, which is the prime working-age population.
• Females are far more likely to discuss their condition with a health care professional (47.5 percent of women versus 28.6 percent of men.)

It's pretty embarrassing, to say the least. Oh well, you can either joke about it, or cry about it. I usually joke (then cry when I get home). I'll post in a little while, there's just kind of a dearth of story ideas right now.

If you get a chance, check out Maddox's most recent post.
Spencer

OK, I'll admit it ... I'm obsessed with it

2006-03-06T09:05:00.000-06:00

Run, bitches. She's got a bible in hand and fire in her mouth. She's the antichrist. Hang, draw and quarter that bitch.
To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Anybody in the world watch the History Channel besides me? I hope so because, if not, I'd feel kinda weird. I can't get enough of that shit, and last night they had programming aimed toward me, I swear. First, they had a two hour special about hell, Satan, and the world's infatuation with the two. After that, they had a special on the antichrist. You know what I was thinking ... Sweet!

I kinda freaked out my girlfriend. She ended up having nightmares about it, and I laughed through the whole thing. The funniest part? Anne Graham Lotz, the daughter of THE Rev. Billy Graham. This bitch, whoo... breathe, Spencer. She came off looking like a third grader compared to the other people who were commenting on the matter. You can tell she has studied nothing but the bible. She honestly believes that hell is in the center of Earth. Not just matter and molten lava. Hell is there. Am I the only one that finds that fucking hysterical? Hold on, I need to laugh. Muah hahahaha!

The antichrist special was sort of a let-down. They did have Hal Lindsey speak—the guy that wrote The Late Great Planet Earth, which served as a sort of precursor for the Left Behind series (which have sold 65 million goddamn books, can you believe that shit?). Though I can't quote him verbatim, his messages went something like this, "He will be extremely charismatic, attractive, the whole world will love him. Then, they will worship him." Ding, ding, ding! I think I know who he's trying to paint a picture of. Clinton anyone? Bill Clinton? I knew they had to talk about him somewhere. Why can't you guys leave Billy-boy alone?

Probably the funniest part, to me at least, was these people at the New Life Church in El Paso, Texas. These fucking people were crazy. "Satan! I command you. Leave this young boy here!" Ahhhhh! I have Satan inside of me? Goddamit, I need to go to church. It all makes sense now. Satan is inside of me right now making me write horrible things about Anne Graham Lotz. I just need to go to church, so I can be cleansed. I can see the light, bitches! I can see the light.

I need to stop. I don't want an angry mob finding this post and forming outside to burn me at the stake. Later, bitches.

My 75th post ... wow, I'm suprised my attention span hasn't drifted yet

2006-03-03T09:08:00.000-06:00

This bitch is fake.
To: Bitches
From: Daddy
Date: Foreva
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

OK, this is gonna be sort of a serious post. Who am I kidding? It's serious, but not a dark post, mind you. I had a friend, whom I dearly care for (and wish she hated frat boys), question me yesterday. Here's what she said:

"[J]ust read your blog.... catching up on the newest post and the ones I hadn't yet read. You are a strange kid, you know that, right? The thing is - I think only part of it is an 'act' of sort. You and I have had conversations that don't follow this persona that I see on there. I'm not saying you are being fake, I don't think you truly could be, at least not for an extended amount of
time. Maybe you have me fooled. ..."

Pretty strong words, huh? And I love that I have friends that would say stuff like that to me. It lets me know that they care about me. Anyway, here was my response:

"I totally understand your stance. Maybe I am fake every once in a while, but when you really think about it, aren't we all a little fake every now and then? I started the blog for one outstanding reason: a place to release, without censorship, my thoughts on everything. I don't do that always in public and around my friends for various and obvious reasons. One, I don't want to alienate myself from people I care about, like you.

"I don't necessarily think you'd agree with me on a bunch of stuff, so I don't talk about it. If that's being fake, then that's what I am. Hell, my own mother still doesn't understand why I always come up with a bullshit excuse to avoid going to Christmas Eve services every year. I'd rather her not know some of my views because, frankly, I don't want to hurt or scare her—or even worse, make her think she failed as a parent, which is exactly what I think she would believe."

For those of you I've met in person, I generally am a pretty mild guy, just as long as I don't start hearing Christian rock or George Bush speaking. I don't want everyone to know everything about me. Like Kurt Cobain said on the cover of his journals, "If you read, you'll judge." Simple, but true—especially in Arkansas.

Oftentimes, I don't want to know EVERYthing about other people. I may judge them, too, in a subconscious way, therefore causing problems that didn't have to arise. Call me fake. Where I live, my views aren't exactly welcome. I'm not scared. I just pick my battles. What's so wrong with that?

Why I'm ashamed (sometimes) to be from Arkansas, part 37 in a series

2006-03-02T09:52:00.000-06:00

To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Perusing through the shelves of my local bookstore/publishing conglomerate on Sunday, I, yet again, was suprised by the sheer stupidity, ignorance, and bigotry of another Arkansan. I passed at table set up with numerous books on and about African-Americans (keep in mind it was still February, a.k.a. Black History Month), with a sign hanging above the table reading, "African-American Interest."

I hear this jackfuck—who just so happened to see the table, stop, and feel obligated to tell his wife what he thought—look at her and say, "That's bull shit. You know them blacks would throw a fit if we put a table out there that said it was for whites only." His face turned red, and he continued on, most likely to read books about how horrible Jews are or pick up the latest book from David Duke.

For those of you that don't live in the South, it may be hard for you to understand how widespread this shit is. It's heartbreaking for me, in particular, because at least 40 percent of my family is extremely prejudice. You see, most cases of racism today are not as confrontational as in the old days. I meet people all the time that seem like nice, intelligent, thoughtful and caring people, until it slips. The N word, or any other derogatory term used for deprecating a race. The worst part about it is that you almost come to accept it, as horrible as that sounds. Some times you have no choice. Other times you do. I'm not going to avoid visiting my family in Clarksville, Ark. every Thanksgiving because I know I'll hear a couple racist jokes. I want to, but that's family, ya know? It just sucks to be in this situation, and I wish it weren't so.

... So, uh, yeah. Shut up. I gotta get to work. I'll post later.

Your children are NOT special

2006-02-28T09:37:00.000-06:00

To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Goddamn I hate kids. All of 'em. They stink, they're dirty, and they make my life a living hell. With that said, I had another dream last night. It went a little something like this:

I open my eyes and I'm in line at the grocery store. In front of me is God, and he's taking forever (I'm still trying to figure out why he was buying Vagisil and cranberry pills). I could feel the stares from the two people behind me, so I turned my head and acted like I was looking at magazines to get a peripheral look at them. Holy shit! It was George Carlin directly behind me, and Pat Robertson, who was reading the latest issue of Us magazine.

I hear Patty (as I like to call him) murmuring, "Thank the Lord, Jesus Christ, Britney finally broke it off with Kevin. Let us pray." He squinted his eyes, looking more like he was trying to figure out the square root of 4,063 than trying to contact God.

"You're a fucking idiot," said George.

"Excuse me, sir. I'm talking to God right now. If you don't watch your mouth, I'll damn you to hell and eat your wife and kids," Patty snapped.

God got over the embarrassment of his apparent yeast infection, turned around, and seemed to enlarge to the size of Goliath, with fiery eyes and diamonds for teeth. "I command thou to cease this nonsense," He roared. "Bitches."

I had to stop George from bull-rushing God. His face was blood red, and I probably could've seen steam fuming from his head had I looked closer. He's one of those extremely angry atheists. (I can understand his contempt with people like Patty and, of course, God himself, but one thing I've learned from being an atheist/agnostic is that the more severe anger you display, the worse it is for you. I usually tell people, I think it's cool that you're religious, or at least I can accept it. Over 85 percent of Americans are. When you show that you're upset over their beliefs, all they'll do is tell you that you need Jesus (or religion, in general) in your life. That's the point I reach when I feel the need to slap someone. Believe it or not, there are intelligent Christians that simply have chosen to believe in a superior being but also understand why others may not concur, and they accept it and decline to badger you with their ideas.)

"But he was being mean," pouted Patty, on the verge of tears. "Can't you do something, like, maybe, make a tornado ravage his hometown and kill his wife and family. That would teach George a lesson not to mess with You."

God replied, "Goddammit, Pat. You see, you're the posterchild of exactly what not to be for the Christian faith. You're judgmental, and you hold everyone in the world to implausible standards that you, yourself, fail to uphold. You can't expect me to act like your big brother, beating up people because they called you names, or serve as your version of karma to inflict pain and suffering on people unwilling to succumb to your orders and your interpretation of what the status quo should be."

"Damn. I must say I'm surprised," George said. "I guess it's just your followers I can't stand. Is that beer I see in your basket?"

"Who says I can't get fucked up every now and then, George?" God said, sounding a little perturbed. "You're fixated on the stereotype of the God-fearing American, and you, in turn, end up portraying the run-of-the-mill atheist, pissed off at the world, jealous that those Christians are happy all the time, yet happy because you think you're smarter than them.

"You do realize, George, that, in the same way I made beautiful flowers and allowed the invention of automobiles, I also let man find a beautiful plant called marijuana and invent beer and LSD and so forth. ... You humans kill me. Shit."

Coincidentally, it just so happened that I had ridden to the grocery store in a car, smoked a joint on the way, drank a 40 oz. of Old English and swallowed a five strip of acid before I came in. God sounds like my kinda guy.

... The moral of the story/dream is this: I have fucked up made-up dreams; AND God, Allah, Krishna, Jesus, Mohammad—they're only what you make them to be. That's why I don't buy it. According to scriptures from the past and the preachings of today, Christianity's God seemed like he went through that phrase after you break up with someone special. First, he was nice and let everyone do as they please and live as long as they wanted (the phase where you act like nothing's wrong). Then, all hell broke loose—floods, plagues, dead babies, you know, bad shit (the phase where you just fucking snap and love to see other people suffer). Now, he's to the point to where he just doesn't give a fuck. But then he does, right? Free will? ... With a plan, I guess?

The ulterior moral could be that it's all a crock of shit. Yeah, that's what I'm sticking with.

I'm thinking about some weird shit right now. I'm gonna take a nap.

Daddy's back... and this is the last time I'll refer to myself as "Daddy" ... so shut up

2006-02-27T12:36:00.000-06:00

Don't you wanna hang with these guys and play Twister?
To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

OK, I'm done crying like a little bitch. I'm ready to rant about, well, pretty much nothing. Sound good. Great. Bitch.

What's everyone been up to? Shit, it feels like I haven't posted in a fucking year.

I kinda have a funny instance that happened last Thursday. OK... So we're at the house of my friend who passed away, and we're all sitting in his room watching the Arkansas-Alabama basketball game. To be honest, I was drunk. Margaritas, a martini, pitchers of beer. I was drunk, OK? The mother of this guy I beat the shit out of in high school comes into the room, thankfully not remembering me, and lectures all of us:

"Listen guys, I know you're hurting right now. Believe me, I know. But you can't use pot and drugs and alcohol to get through this. It just breaks my heart that you guys would think about doing that. Look at yourselves. Goddamn."

I look around the room. Chase is staring at the T.V. screen forcing his mouth to close, whereas to conceal his laughter. His eyes looked painted red. Clint is looking at me, scared, like this woman's gonna tell his mommy or something. Our friend Joe is standing behind the woman thrusting his pelvis at her and sticking out his tongue.

I tell her she doesn't have to worry about us doing that, all the while covering my mouth so not to reveal my horrible tequila-gin-beer breath. Then, I step backward and my left knee buckles. I fall. Hard. The room bursts into laughter and this "I am a woman of God" looks mad, then cracks a smile. We ended up smoking a bowl with her and talking about her gay husband, who's a cop.

Guess you had to be there.

Anybody check out MSB00's predictions for 2006? Seem dead on to me.

I'll post later.

Hit Me With It, Blanket. And Put Some Stank On It!

2006-02-23T08:29:00.000-06:00

They may have gotten off to a rocky start, but somebody get Jacko one of those #1 Dad hats... 'cause he has definitly earned it!

In an attempt to give Blanket, Paris and Prince Michael II a normal childhood, Michael Jackson has moved them to the Middle East... far away from the American public that has belittled and ridiculed him, and his family, for way too long.

What has the King of Pop done to deserve all of this scrutiny? Showing kids a good time is wrong? Well, then someone pull the plug on Walt Disney's cryogenic chamber!

Let's face it, there's no way Blanket and the kiddies can expect to be accepted by other children in a society that frowns upon the complete masking of one's face. Believe me, I know. My mother made me wear a paper bag until I was 28. "They're all going to laugh at you," she'd scream, chaining me up in the basement.

So he's surrounded them with the only people cool with that, Muslims! Actually quite brilliant. Still, they only cover up their women. Blanket, get ready for some gay Arab jokes down the line.

But that's okay. If I know Blanket like I think I do, hardly, he'll take all those years of harassment and channel it into his art. One day he's going to blow the world away with the Sunwalk. Can you imagine? That's what the Jacksons do — revolutionize dance. The Jackson 5 perfected the line dance, Michael gave us the Moonwalk (which nobody can do, still.. a true testament to its complexity), Janet gave junior high drill-squads that oriental looking move from the "If" video... and Blanket will one day shock us with his installment.

I can't wait. ...Cha'mon!

Here goes

2006-02-21T10:54:00.000-06:00

To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

It's amazing how quickly, and drastically, life changes — however cliche that may sound. At 7:14 a.m. yesterday, I was complaining about the alarm and wishing I could go back to hibernation. At 7:15, my girlfriend's phone rang. I ran outside to start her car, freezing my ass off in the seemingly sub-zero temperatures.

By 7:16, I was hit with the news that one of my best friends from high school had passed away in his sleep. I told my girlfriend I didn't want to hear it, and I went back to sleep, or tried, at least. "Spencer, Dustin died." It kept resonating through my head, and I didn't know how to make it stop.

I had to drive home in my Jeep, which is without a radio. I would've turned it off if I had one anyway. Somehow the silence was pleasantly unbearable. I looked to my right and saw Dustin, laughing uncontrollably, mouthing out the words to his favorite rap song. Hell, he was even dancing like a maniac, singing "I don't fight, I don't argue/I just hit that bitch with a bottle." It's funny. I begin laughing, and then I stop myself. It's not real. It's not funny. I immediately call people I'm sure haven't heard the news yet. No one's answering their phones. It's before 8 a.m. on a Monday. What was I thinking?

I start getting inundated with phone calls from concerned friends. I inform the uninformed and solace the ones who knew. They try to do the same for me. They knew I was close to him. I was. He was like my older little brother. But I don't wanna hear it. I want to hear silence. Then, I want to hear Dustin's poor excuse for rapping/singing. Nah, I want silence.

I start revisiting the times we had together. Damn, I'm surprised he or I didn't die already. Too much coke. Too much ecstasy. Too many Vicodin. Too much vodka. But too much was just enough.

I begin to get angry. He wasn't supposed to die. He was supposed to overdose and survive, then promise to never do drugs again. "It was his time to go," one friend from Fayetteville says. "Fuck you," I say. "It wasn't his time to go." I feel bad, but, then, I don't. It doesn't comfort me one bit for someone to say they're going to pray for me, or to tell me that it was part of God's plan. The audacity of these fucking people — however benevolent their intentions may be — amazes me.

Dustin's dead, I say. He's not "in a better place." He's not playing golf with Jesus. Why pad your emotions with something you don't wholeheartedly believe? It's a fucking cop-out. That's why. Life kicks you in the balls every now and then. What the fuck are you gonna do about it?

What you should do is remember him for the person he was, and nothing more. He was a good kid. He had more courage than anyone I've ever met. He had the mouth and alcohol-consumption capacity of a sailor. He was a motherfucker wasn't he? He could make anyone laugh. And, boy, don't talk about his mom.

Dustin, Dirty D, "Daddy" as he called himself, will be missed. But I will fucking lose it if one of these goddamn holier-than-thou ministers has an alter call at his funeral — like they have at other funerals I've attended.

That's all I gots ta say.

Sorry, guys

2006-02-21T09:07:00.000-06:00

I had a friend pass away yesterday. I don't feel like sayin' much. I'll probably post later today.

I should've known

2006-02-17T14:11:00.000-06:00

Sex tape Friday ... that sounds stupid.

2006-02-17T09:20:00.000-06:00

Atheists 1 ... Christians negative-666
To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Anybody hear about the Kid Rock/Scott Stapp sex tape? This is fucking awesome. I love seeing shitty musicians fail. I've always kinda liked Kid Rock, the guy, not the musician. He just reminds me of a lot of my friends and seems like he'd be a cool guy to get drunk with. Scott Stapp, though. He's an ass pirate. And it's even better that now he's officially a Christian rock guy.

Is that not the biggest oxymoron? Christian rock. Or Chrisitan industrial. Christian rap. Puuuhlease.

It's confession time. I actually paid the money to go see Creed when I was about 15. I know, that's super duper ass pirate-y of me, but hey, what can i say? I'm sorry? I still, to this day, defend my stance that I like their drummer (or former drummer) Scott Phillips. He's fuckin' bad. I never liked Scott Stapp, though. He reminded me of a pussy frat-boy-wanna-be that slaps his girlfriend and looks at kiddie porn. And I always thought he was ambiguously gay.

Read the story, it's fucking hilarious.The journalist has to point out in the story that Kid Rock and Stapp didn't engage in sexual acts with each other. He thinks he's gay, too.

I have a retarded joke: What's the difference between a crackhead and a crystal meth addict?

Answer: A crackhead will steal your shit and run. ... A meth addict will steal your shit and help you look for it.

I haven't seen this shit in years ...

2006-02-16T13:37:00.000-06:00

I wanna be like Mike

2006-02-16T09:23:00.000-06:00

All right, YAY! I'm gonna eat your fucking kids for lunch!
To: The Gov.
From: Your goddamn daddy
Date: 9 and a half years
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

All right. I feel like dog patch today. How are you? Really? Awesome. I'm still thinking about what it would be like to shoot a 78-year-old man. In the FACE. Dick, how do you sleep at night? Fat fuck.

This morning before I headed on my 30-minute commute, I took the time to read a Mike Masterson (columnist for the Arkansas-Democrat Gazette) piece. I, honestly, wrote better columns as a freshman in high school. MSB00 and Girl Arkansas talk often about how simple his columns are, MSB00 even gave a do-it-yourself format for writing a Masterson column. He uses bullshit phrases like, "That, my friends, is true." First of all, you pudgy bitch, I'm not your fucking friend.

He's one of those fuckers that assumes everyone that's reading his column is a God-fearing American, succumbing to the pressures of living under a dictator and taking it in stride. Fuck him. Today, he talked about Gov. Mike Huckabee and his "official business" expenditures.

For those of you that don't live in Arkansas, we have a goddamn ass pirate for governor. Since he was first elected governor, he's taken nearly 750 trips in the state-funded airplane. The bullshit a bout it is that, by state law, he doesn't have to say where he's going or what he's doing, all he has to state is "official business." Even though, everyone in the state knows he's promoting his nasty fuckin' ass for president. Or promoting his book. Or giving a speech on health.

Am I the only one that thinks he looks like an alien that should've been in Men In Black? He looks so fucking unhealthy. And it pisses me off even more that he spends my goddamn tax dollars to take trips to Washington to rub elbows with George Bush and give $5 blow jobs to the Republican National Convention chairman.

Doesn't Huckabee remind you of one of those gay guys that likes to lay in a tub while other guys pee and shit on him? Me too.

Dammit

2006-02-15T13:58:00.000-06:00

To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Ah, yes. Or no, I mean. I guess I tried to cop-out of my blog entry today. Lindsey caught me (in the comment box). Maybe I'm the only one that thinks a story about irrepressible bowel movements equals hilarity. I'm sorry. I digress.

I just ran into a person from high school in the UCA parking lot. When people I knew fairly well see me, it's not just like, "Hey ... er ... dude!" I got out of my Jeep, and all I hear is, "SPENCER CAMPBELL!" When I hear that, it's either one of two things: 1) A long-lost fried; or 2) Someone that's been waiting to catch me by myself to kick my ass. Luckily, it was a girl's voice I heard today. I was pleasantly surprised when I saw who it was.

I'd known this girl since junior high. I wasn't attracted to her at all then because, frankly, I thought she tried too hard to be popular — a total turn-off. She was just one of those girls that I thought was meant to be cool, but not extremely popular. She's beautiful, with smarts to match, and she hung out with cool people who didn't give a fuck. Yet, she acted like she did, and sometimes alienated herself from some of her own best friends.

Anyway, I was genuinely pleased that I saw her today. I wanted to tell her that I didn't have a girlfriend. She doesn't have a boyfriend. I wanted to get her number. I'm pretty sure she'd have given it to me. But I pussed out, and, anyway, my girlfriend and I are getting along — right now, at least.

For every one of those awkward moments when you see someone you really didn't care for that much, there's that one person you are extremely glad to have run into. Maybe it's just me.

God, I sound like a fuckin' pussy. I'm gonna kick myself in the balls real quick until I throw up, then call a random person and cuss them out. Yeah, that'll get that testosterone running again.

Bitch.

The Chili Cook-off

2006-02-15T09:47:00.000-06:00

To: Your Stomach
From: Your Ass
Date: SAVE ME
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Alright, I got this forwarded e-mail today. I usually hate forwarded mail, but this is fucking hilarious (to me). I hope you find it humorous. It hits a chord because we have chili cookoffs in Arkansas all the time. I can only imagine an experience like Frank's:

— Frank: "Recently, I was honored to be selected as a judge at a chili
cook-off. The original person called in sick at the last moment and I
happened to be standing there at the judge's table asking for
directions to the Coors Light beer truck, when the call came in. I was
assured by the other two judges (native Texans) that the chili
wouldn't be all that spicy and, besides, they told me I could have
free beer during the tasting, so I accepted."

*Here are the scorecards from the event: Frank is Judge #3.

• Chili # 1 - Eddie's Maniac Monster Chili.

— Judge # 1 -- A little too heavy on the tomato. Amusing kick.

— Judge # 2 -- Nice, smooth tomato flavor. Very mild.

— Judge # 3 -- (Frank) Holy hell! What the hell is this?! You
could remove dried paint from your driveway with this shit. Took me two beers to put
out the flames. I hope that's the worst one. These Texans are fuckin' crazy.

• Chili # 2 - Austin's Afterburner Chili.

— Judge # 1 -- Smoky, with a hint of pork. Slight jalapeno tang.

— Judge # 2 -- Exciting BBQ flavor; needs more peppers to be taken seriously.

— Judge # 3 -- Keep this out of the reach of children, for Christ's fucking sake. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to taste besides pain. I had to wave off two people who wanted to give me the Heimlich maneuver. They had to rush in more beer when they saw the look on my face.

• Chili # 3 - Ronny's Famous Burn Down the Barn Chili.

— Judge # 1 -- Excellent firehouse chili. Great kick. Needs more beans.

— Judge # 2 -- A beanless chili, a bit salty, good use of peppers.

— Judge # 3 -- Call the EPA. Right now, bitch! I've located a uranium spill. My nose feels like I have been snorting Drano. Everyone knows the routine by now. Get me more beer before I ignite. Barmaid pounded me on the back, now my backbone is in the front part of my chest. I'm getting shit-faced from all of the beer.

• Chili # 4 - Dave's Black Magic.

— Judge # 1 -- Black bean chili with almost no spice. Disappointing.

— Judge # 2 -- Hint of lime in the black beans. Good side dish for
fish, or other mild foods; not much of a chili.

— Judge # 3 -- I felt something scraping across my tongue, but was unable to taste it. Is it possible to burn out taste buds? Sally, the barmaid, was standing behind me with fresh refills. She weighs about a deuce and a half, but that woman is starting to look HOT...just like this nuclear waste I'm eating! Is chili an aphrodisiac?

• Chili # 5 - Lisa's Legal Lip Remover.

— Judge # 1 -- Meaty, strong chili. Cayenne peppers freshly ground,
adding considerable kick. Very impressive.

— Judge # 2 -- Chili using shredded beef, could use more tomato. Must
admit the cayenne peppers make a strong statement.

— Judge # 3 -- My ears are ringing, sweat is pouring off my forehead, and I can no longer focus my eyes. I farted and four people behind me needed paramedics. The contestant seemed offended when I told her that her chili had given me brain damage. Sally saved my tongue from bleeding by pouring beer directly on it from the pitcher. I wonder if it looks like my lips are burning off because it sure in the fuck feels like it. Goddammit! It really ticked me off that the other judges asked me to stop screaming. Screw those rednecks. What the fuck is wrong with you people?!

• Chili # 6 - Pam's Very Vegetarian Variety.

— Judge # 1 -- Thin, yet bold vegetarian variety chili. Good balance of
spices and peppers.

— Judge # 2 -- The best yet. Aggressive use of peppers, onions, and
garlic. Superb.

— Judge # 3 -- My intestines are now a straight pipe filled with gaseous, sulphuric flames. I shit on myself when I farted and I'm worried it will eat through the chair. No one seems inclined to stand behind me except that Sally. Can't feel my lips anymore. I need to wipe my ass with a snow cone. Then I might eat it — it sure in the hell would taste better.

• Chili # 7 - Carla's Screaming Sensation Chili...

— Judge # 1 -- A mediocre chili with too much reliance on canned peppers.

— Judge # 2 -- Ho-hum; tastes as if the chef literally threw in a can of chili peppers at the last moment. I should take note that I am worried about Judge # 3. He appears to be in a bit of distress, as he is cursing uncontrollably.

— Judge # 3 -- You could put a grenade in my mouth, pull the pin, and I wouldn't feel a thing. I've lost sight in one eye, and the world sounds like it is made of rushing water. My shirt is covered with chili, which slid unnoticed out of my mouth. My pants are full of lava to match my shirt. At least during the autopsy, they'll know what killed me: I've decided to stop breathing. It's too painful. Fuck it; I'm not getting any oxygen anyway. If I need air, I'll just suck it in through the goddamn 4-inch hole in my stomach.

• Chili # 8 - Karen's Toenail Curling Chili.

— Judge # 1 -- The perfect ending, this is a nice blend chili. Not too bold, but spicy enough to declare its existence.

— Judge # 2 -- This final entry is a good, balanced chili. Neither mild, nor hot. Sorry to see that most of it was lost when Judge # 3 farted, passed out, fell over, and pulled the chili pot down on top of himself. Not sure if he's going to make it. No one wants to help him because he's covered in his own feces. Poor fella, wonder how he'd have reacted to really hot chili? Oh, shit. He's going into convulsions. Paramedics!

Shot ... in the FACE

2006-02-14T09:13:00.000-06:00

Aaaaaaah! Run, motherfuckers, run. Dick! Put it down, you sonuvabitch!

To: The FACE
From: Dick N. Balls-Cheney
Date: Face, I tell you
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Richard, Dick, Balls, whatever your name is, what were you thinking? I admit, I can be a ruthless bastard sometimes, but, dear GOD, I don't shoot 78-year-old men in the FACE. In the fucking face?! Goddamn.

And you know what Dick Cheney did after he shot that guy ...

Dick: "Goddammit, why did you get in my fuckin' way? Sonuvabitch."

78-year-old man who got shot IN THE FACE: "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! Dick, put the fucking gun down. Put it down, you goddamn cum dumpster!"

Kiss-ass hunting friend: "Uh, sir, Mr. Dick Cheney, sir. He's a lawyer. Like, a good one. Like a multimillionaire from something other than Haliburton."

Dick: "Well, now he'll think twice before he plans on suing me. No one — and I mean no one, Bananno (? sounds like a gay, kiss-ass name) — fucks with the Dick. Bitch."

Kiss-ass hunting friend: "SIr, yes, sir!"

... In other news, I watched the Stephen Colbert Report last night. Some ass-pirate governor was on the show talking about liberal and conservative moderates. Ahhh blow me. You know, as much as I want to like Colbert's show, I really don't. It's just not that good. I'll watch his interviews, but that's about it. I like it when they talk to a U.S. Representative: "One down, 434 to go!"

What does everyone think about Chas? I hate him, but I think it's out of jealousy. I really wish my mom would've named me Chas. It's edgy. It's cool. It reminds me of Hugh Hefner in the 60s. Hugh's name should be Chas. Chas Hefner ... I like that. But, really, doesn't it scare the living shit out of you to know there are people just like Chas all over the United States? That just gives me the chills thinking about it.

Oh well, just let Dick go hunting with all the guys like Chas. Maybe he'll shoot them. In the goddamn FACE!

Dick Cheney, My Hero!

2006-02-13T22:32:00.000-06:00

To: All
From: Chas
Date: Monday, Feb. 13, 2006
Subject: Forgotten Rules

Has the media gone completely mad over Dick Cheney's recent hunting mishap?

Sure, he didn't have a completed license and the amount of walking he was doing may have blown his knees out, forever, but come on... he's the VP!

Can you imagine what Teddy Roosevelt would have done to some punk ass reporter probing into one of his "accidental" misfires during the Spanish American War? Trust me, they happened. And they probably weren't accidents...

If some choad ever questioned the Bull Moose Party in front of Teddy, he'd string him up by the balls and skin him alive! That's the way things were done back then -- the good ol' days.

So why can't we still extend this common courtesy to today's elected officials? Let's face it, even though they're supposed to be held to the same standards as everyone else, they're not us... they're better!

We need those old, crusty white men deucing on golden toilets, banging their secretaries in the Bahamas and keeping the hegemony alive. Without them our way of life would be in total jeopardy, leaving the world to be run by lesser-thans.

True Americans wouldn't ask Cheney what he was thinking... they'd ask him if he needed more ammo!

Mr. Vice-President, come quail hunting with me in South Dakota. If it's human blood you crave, I've got all the Mennonites you can handle and over 2,000 acres on which to massacre them.

Library .... AAAAAAAAAAAH!

2006-02-12T14:38:00.000-06:00

To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Not to sound like a complete jackass and dork, but I love going to the library. I mean, of course, I love the books, but that's not why I come here. You never know what to expect here. Will I see someone famous looking for a book they've written? Will I stumble upon an old girlfriend or friend from high school?

Essentially, though, I like staring at the transients. I don't know why, it's some weird fascination--similar to the one I have with midgets. I like hearing the stories they have. The other day, I had a guy come up to me and tell me he was starting a Christian-based Internet service and he wanted a $10 donation. And? That was it. What the fuck is a "service"? Anyway, I simply replied, "All my praise goes to Allah. Damn your Christian Internet service!"

I really thought he was gonna slap me. That's the look he gave me. It's OK, though, I sized him up and came to the conclusion that I could have kicked his ass, that's why I said that. But I do; I love transients. I like trying to determine what different substances joined together to create that beautiful malodor. (Hmmm... I'm guessing you spend a lot of time around a paper mill. No? You just shit yourself? Oh, umm... OK. Whatever tickles your pickle, man.)

Also I like talking to some of the people that work here. Some of them are just fucking weird. Not in a bad way, kinda like that cool friend you had that worshipped David Hassellhoff. Cool, but fucking weird. Then there are the people that just take themselves waaaaaaaaaaay too seriously and overcalculate their own intellect. They act like you're fucking retarded because you haven't read some underground author that only five people know about. I'll piss on you and your fucking author ... even if he's a good one.

There's people exactly like that when it comes to music, too. Don't treat me like I'm Hitler because I haven't heard of your favorite underground band. Let me borrow a fucking CD or something. Shit. It's like a club of snobby book-readers and music-listeners that don't want to let anyone else in.

OK, I'm rambling. Back to why I really came to the library. (I gotta get some work done.) Later.

People who hate people ... Come together

2006-02-10T21:38:00.000-06:00

To: Everyone
From: Daddy
Date: Tomorrow
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

I've been looking at my StatCounter shit, and I've realized that a lot of people are starting to look at this page. Why? I'm not quite sure. I like being able to see where people are and who their Internet providers are, that way I can act like a stalker when I talk to them (not that I like being a stalker, but you know what I'm satyin').

I'm pretty impressed because most of the people that visit actually stay for a couple minutes. And the majority of people that visit aren't even from Arkansas. I got one that works for Google (I think) that visits pretty regularly. One from Mission Viejo, California -- the town with the bad ass high school football team every year. One from Denver. I got Lucy Lu from Wales. Bunch of people.

A lot of the people that visit often I've never even talked to. I'd like to, though, just so I know a little about the people visiting. So if I'm talkin about you, drop me a line 'cause I'm always bored at work, and I like meeting new people.

I know it may seem kinda weird that I'm posting here at 9:45 on a Friday night (and maybe it is), but we're waiting on the girls to get over here. My beer hasn't kicked in yet. Neither have the drugs I've taken. So I can simply sit here and wait. Plus I'm not used to being at a house that has a computer, so I like to take advantage of it.

OK, I'm done. Holler at 'cha later.

--Spencer

P.S. Isn't Chas a total douche?

Chas' Manifesto

2006-02-10T10:05:00.000-06:00

To: The General Public
From: Chas
Date: Friday, Feb. 10, 2006; 10:05 a.m. CST
Subject: Me, myself and the American way of life...

Hello. My name is Chas. For those who may not be fully aware, Spencer has asked me to contribute to The Memo from time to time. I have accepted his gracious invitation for two reasons: To act as your guide toward the light of reason and as a pedestal for the acquisition of loftier things.

First, I would like to thank Spencer for allowing me this freedom on his public forum. It takes a real man to bring in outside opinions (especially ones differing from his own), and for that I commend him. Please understand that these are my opinions and he shouldn't be held accountable for my views - not matter how obvious they really are.

Next, I would like to bring you up to speed about who I am and what it is that makes me tick. I believe in God, the United States of America and all forms of hunting and fishing. For fun, I like to sit by the fireplace in my exceptionally cozy leather recliner, reading Corey Ford short stories and sipping on a well-aged scotch.

At other times, my friends and I can be found smoking cigars and drinking highballs at our favorite ultra-conservative bar and lounge, The Elephant. You've probably never heard of it. Even if you had, I doubt they'd let you in.

Tweed jackets, the Wall Street Journal and over-and-under shotguns are my passions in life. Without them, I see no reason for getting up in the morning and hopping out of my William Faulkner Collection king size bed... except, of course, for enlightening the world about the importance of conservativism and traditions.

Finally, I encourage anyone viewing my entries who either agrees or disagrees to comment. Open discussion is what makes this country so great. Thank you and may God bless us all.

I'm changing the looks today

2006-02-10T10:04:00.000-06:00

I can't even read my own blog on this computer. It's a blown font. I'm gonna change my format to the same one on MSB00 and Girl Arkansas's page.

Armageddon ... and Chas (chaz)

2006-02-10T09:27:00.000-06:00

To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Damn, I feel a lot better today. I think the only thing that could make me sick right now would be eating — rather, even looking — at a bowl of Ramen noodles right now. Am I the only one that thinks, Damn, I'd love some Ramen noodles right now, only to be let down by their unmistakably bland taste? They're okaaaaay if you put a little Cavender's Greek seasoning in them, but other than that, ewww!

Well, I hope everyone's preparing for the end of the world in Arkansas — or just three inches of snow. That shit drives me nucking futs. My brother worked at the Wal-Mart grocery store in Sherwood last year, and he said in a 24-hour span (before a winter storm hit), that grocery store sold over $100,000 worth of groceries. Yeah, Goddamn! is right. Think about it. Worst case scenario: You'll be stuck at home for a day, tops. Eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich; it won't fucking kill you. If you get bored, just call me. I'll bring my Jeep to your house, tie up an inner tube to the back of it and get drunk and go for joy rides. Sound fun? Good. 'Cause it is.

I think that's another reason anybody north of the Mason-Dixon line would think we're fucking crazy, redneck, hillbilly jackfucks. As soon as the weatherman predicts sleet, freezing rain or snow flurries, people prepare for fucking armageddon.

Why don't they just do what I do? Go to the store, buy some beer, rent a couple movies, go pick up a little bit of weed and some honey buns and Twix candy bars, and take advantage of a day off from work. Right now I'm just listening to some Primus (fucking awesome), thinking about how stupid I'm gonna get later.

So what did everyone think of that Chas guy leaving all those hurtful remarks? Yeah, I hated him, too. But I think to add a little balance to this blog, I need voices like Chas. I like pissing people off — especially right-wing fundamentalists like Chas. Therefore, I've asked Chas to contribute to this blog every once in a while. I'm still waiting on his reply. Feel free to tel lhim how much you hate him or think he's stupid. I told him to be ready for that, just in case. Plus, it's gotta be worth a good laugh to let some jackass like him get his psycho ramblings out of him once in a while.

I hope no one's extremely pissed or anything. I don't think you will be, though. I think you can look at it the same way I can: It's a joke. Take it with a laugh.

Everyone have a good Friday, and weekend. As you should have known by now, I don't have a computer at home, and therefore, I can't write on the weekend unless I go to the library. I think I'm going to the library on Saturday, though, so I might get to post. Anyway, later bitches.

RAAAAAAAAALPH

2006-02-09T09:17:00.000-06:00

To: The Porcelain God
From: Your Humble Servant
Date: Around 8:36 a.m.
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Oh. I feel like a victim of Civil War torture tactics today. I had to stop on my way to work so I could raaaaaaaalph, and all I could think about was the people sitting in their cars at the stop light staring at me. I waved at them and smiled, after which they looked off quickly and pretended like it wasn't them. People are so stupid. I'm kinda pissed, though. I only got to eat two bites of my Sonic breakfast toaster, therefore wasting five bucks — and I'm a cheap sonuvabitch.

I don't know why I'm sick today. I didn't drink that much last night, and I didn't do any drugs. Plus, I don't EVER get sick. I can count on one hand how many times I've been sick from getting fucked up. Oh well.

I'm kinda pissed off. I checked out this book from the library the other day called "The God File." I thought it might have been one of those great books that I found by chance because I sort of just stumbled upon it. I was looking for a book on Eudora Welty, and I saw this black book that just stood out to me. Sure enough, I figured out what caught my attention: THE GOD FILE was emblazoned on the side, with shiny, silver letters that stood out like a black dude at a Klan convention.

I read the first page, and the book already grabbed my fancy. In the second paragraph the author stated three of my favorite vulgarities: shit, fuck and goddammit. The storyline was simple: Guy goes to prison for a crime he didn't commit and questions his faith in god. Blah blah blah. What I thought would be an interesting, Christian-bashing epic turned out to be a story about how a guy finds his faith in the Lord in the most inauspicious circumstances. Boring.

I thought it would be one of those books in which I could put up with the elementary writing and weak storyline because I liked the idea. It turned out being a shit pile with elementary writing, a weak storyline and an idea that wreaked with unoriginality.

OK. So yeah, fuck that book. I'm gonna get to work. Peace, bitches.

Arkansaw at its best

2006-02-08T10:58:00.000-06:00

Oh, this is too good to be true

2006-02-08T09:24:00.000-06:00

Hey, look, it's the newest tissue paper out, Super Bowl-theme.
To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Ahhh... Wednesday. Monday feels like it just happened and Friday seems too far away. I took a day off yesterday because, well, on this blog I'm daddy and daddy does what he feels like. OK, sorry, that won't ever come out again.

I forgot to talk about the Super Bowl. What a sleeper, huh? It was worth watching, though, just to catch a glimpse of Shawn Alexander's face after the realization of defeat had set in. God, I hate that motherfucker. He reminds me of the know-it-all, good-at-everything guy in high school.

You know what we did to those guys? We'd invite them over for a party, get them drunk, wait till they pass out, then the guys would tea-bag 'em (I will not explain what that is, in case you don't know) and take pictures after we let the girls put makeup all over them. Then we'd take the photos and post them around school.

Looking back now, that was kinda mean. Whoa. Hold on. Remorse is not in my vocabulary. That's what they deserve for being pretentious jackasses.

I also got to see UFC (Ultimate Fighting Championships) this weekend. I'm obsessed with that shit. Chuck Liddell + Randy Couture = One bad ass fight. Little factoid about me for ya: I used to train for no-holds-barred fighting when I was in 7th and 8th grade, that's why I love it so much.

Anybody have anything exciting going on in their lives? Everyone I know has been in a piss-on-Jesus mood the last week. Serious. Did I miss a major disaster or terrorist attack or something? Shit. I offered glorious bouts of sex to all the girls I know that are in somber moods. Access denied.

Don't say I didn't try.

Dur dur dur!

2006-02-06T11:03:00.000-06:00

To: Me
From: I'm talking to myself
Date: Not you
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

You know, I never made it to a college class. (Hell, I didn't even finish high school.) I still plan on starting next fall, nevertheless, but I've yet to fully experience the college life. Of course, I've attended numerous parties, met tons of new people and visited numerous friends on campus, but I — me, myself — haven't lived it.

That's one reason I like my new internship. I'm on campus every day, though not for classes. But coming here every day and seeing the people I see, I've confirmed a conclusion I came to a long time ago: High school never ends. Ever.

I'm one of those people that, when in a new environment, I like to observe. I look at peope walking by me. I listen to their conversations. I survey what they're wearing, how many piercings they have, what tattoos they have showing, etc. I can't help it, I guess it's a trait that comes with being a writer. What I'm trying to say is that I'm seeing the same things I saw in high school, just slightly modified.

Incubus has a song about this very theme on their last CD, One Crow Left of the Murder. They're not just talking about high school likenesses in college, but in every aspect of life. The last company I worked for fit the bill. I mean you have the popular people that go out all the time and invite a lucky few to go. Then you have the smart clique that couldn't care less and have fun on their own. Then, of course, there are the people who act like they could care less if they get invited to go with the popular people, but they really do.

I even get frustrated talking about it. Who gives a shit? I wanna go out with people who like me for who I am, not because they think they could gain with me being their friend. I like girls that don't care if their hair is a little, uh..., misconstrued.

I don't know what I expected. I guess I just knew what I didn't expect: immaturity, pretentiousness and sheer cruelty.

I still think it's hilarious to see girls that still find pleasure in getting made up to go to class. They act like it's a first date or something. Give me the girl that's wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt and one whose facial features are actually visible and not plastered with makeup.

I guess it's something I'll have to, not get accustomed to, but avoid. Shouldn't be that hard, right?

A little late?

2006-02-03T14:40:00.000-06:00

Pentagon lays out strategy for 21st century. And, yes, it's 2006, not 1999.

Are you fucking kidding me?

2006-02-03T13:36:00.000-06:00

To: The White House
From: The Future President
Date: Yesterday
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

I just read an article concerning the implementation of random drug testing at a private school. Numerous public schools have already passed — and even more are considering — some form of drug testing program for students. Sometimes the testing applies strictly to students in extracurricular activies, including sports programs. Oftentimes, it's for all students.

The White House endorses the idea. Bush alluded to his approval school drug testing in his State of the Union address. Am I the only one that thinks this is total bullshit — or in other words, an invasion of privacy and an obviously absurd and gross move by elected fearmongers to deplete our youths' civil liberties?

I look at it like this: Experiences in high school help shape the person you'll be for the rest of your life. However, I also believe that you change more after high school than you do during your actual tenure. Of course, drugs can be harmful, even deadly. But don't let these leaders assume the role of these kids' parents. That's not their fucking jobs. These kids already have parental/authoritative figures. They don't need any more.

Essentially, that's what most of the Christian conservatives are trying to do — be our fuckin' daddy. Who the hell are they to say a girl can't have an abortion? Who are they to say a kid can't smoke a joint? Who are they to you shouldn't have a beer? They had nothing to do with the development of that child or that girl. They don't know their middle (or possibly even their last) names, or their nicknames. They don't know what their favorite movies are. Yet, they're gonna try to punish and ostracize them for something that they did while away from school? Fuck you.

Private schools can do it because they're just that — private. It's still bullshit, and I wouldn't stand for it if it were my child; but at least it's legal. I'm so fucking tired of the fevered egos of this country tainting our collective unconscious, making us think that this shit is acceptable. (Thanks, Bill Hicks.)

This isn't the first time this idea has come up. But, for the love of God, can this please be the fucking last time?

Freaky Friday ... Haaaay

2006-02-03T09:30:00.000-06:00

To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

So how's everyone doing today? Really? Who gives a fuck? Not me. I thought I was supposed to say that.

Anyway, it's Friday and I feel like complete dog patch. It's all my fault, though, as you would probably imagine. I drank "a little" too much last night. Before I went drinking, however, I went to the mall. And boy, oh boy, was it fuckin' fun fun fun for everyone.

Do you ever catch yourself being extremely rude without even trying? Good. I'm not alone. I do it all the time. The older I get, I hate everything more. I used to be the nice guy. Well, not that nice. But nice enough for my girlfriends' parents to like me. But that guy is long gone. I catch myself grumbling under my breath after a cute, little 17-year-old smiley glad-hand says, "Are you doing OK, sir?" To which I reply, even mildly interrupting her, "I'm fine. I don't need any help."

The thing is, I should empathize with these kinds of people. (OK, I'm about to tell you something of which I'm ashamed and I'm sure will shock you.) See, I used to work at The Buckle. Yes, I know how much you hate it. I know how they badger the customers. I, honestly, wasn't one of those. I actually made pretty good money there; and the big bosses liked me. They'd say shit like, "If you keep this up, you could have your own store by the time you're 19."

Then I turned 18 and it was like a switch turning on in my brain. I was at work one day, got mad and told everyone to go fuck themselves. I also called them pretentious jackasses that nothing to fret over but their waist size and hair color. I just got sick of being around people like that.

OK, back to the subject: I used to get the evil stares and the low grumbles all the time. I'd just laugh at people. I wouldn't do the whole, "Hey, let me help you find something. What size do you wear? What? You don't want to say it out loud in front of 60 people? Why? Pussy?" I was more like, "Hey, I'm Spencer, you need any help finding anything, come find me. OK?" Always worked. People like to be left alone, and if they need your help, they'll find you. If they don't need your help, you can go take another smoke break.

However, despite my past endeavors, I fucking hate the mall. I hate department store salesmen. I, ugh, need to go back to sleep.

Made-up dream, God, Vicodin and beautiful girls

2006-02-01T09:45:00.000-06:00

To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Yippee. The brownies are finally out of my system. Dear GOD, thank you. I'm feeling a little "iffy" today. Yeah, iffy. Kinda like, iffy you say one cross word to me, I might choke the shit out of you. K? OK.

I had this pretty crazy dream last night. (Not really, but I'm gonna make one up.) God spake — yes, spake — to me. Do you know what he said? "Sup, bitch? Wake your punk ass up, I got some brownies." To which I replied, "No, goddamnit, er, God. Why you gots ta fuck with me like that? Uncool. Really fuckin' uncool."

God: "Quit bein' a little bitch. Hey did you see Dubya's State of the Union speech?"

Me: "No. Since I can't help but vomit every time I watch or listen to him, I've cut down on my Bush take-in each day. Ya know what I mean?"

God: "No, I don't know what you mean, but I'm gonna nod in agreement and hope you won't bring that up again. He said he was gonna cut foreign imports of oil by 75 percent. Can you believe that shit? You better lose that freshman 15 you gained, 'cuz your punk ass is about to be walkin' every where."

Me: "Freshman 13, ass pirate. Anyway, there's no way he's gonna do that. It would cost HIM too much money. And besides, Dick Cheney wouldn't allow it. He'd bitch slap Bush until he drew blood and lick it off Bush's lips. He's gross like that."

God: "You're a sick fuck. Did you know that?

Me: "I've been told that before. Yes."

God: "OK, I'm out-ie. Here's a couple Vicodin. It'll take the edge off."

Me: "Thanks, God. You're the shit."

God: "You think that's good? Wait till you get to heaven. Beautiful girls. Everywhere. That actually like you."

Me: "Sweet. OK, my mind's getting a little cloudy. You gave me the big blue ones. Shit. The 'edge' is gone."

... And that was my made-up dream. Have a good day. I'll be back.

Wake up, me

2006-01-31T09:34:00.001-06:00

Bad, bad brownies.
To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Whoa. OK, ol' Spence is having some trouble waking from the trance his was put in last night. Words of advice: Don't. Ever. Eat. Brownies. That. Your. Friend. Made.

Shit. I wasn't just high. I was freaked-out high. You know, you can't say anything because every time you're about to speak you stop because you think you already said it. Then you start having an argument with yourself, which turns into you laughing at yourself, which turns into people thinking you're fucking weird.

Yeah, that's how I felt last night. I was seeing tracers and everything. Not cool. Well, it was cool, but not when I was driving home on the interstate at night time. Don't get me wrong: I love seeing shit. But there's a proper place and time for that. Not driving home at 6:30.

I'm usually not a weed man. I'll smoke it every once in a while, probably averaging to about three times a month. Well, eating this "brownie" was nothing like smoking weed. It takes about 45 minutes for it to hit you. Then it gets stronger. And stronger. I began speaking in another language it seemed like. Every time I opened my mouth to talk, it was like I had the stalk from a huge weed plant stuck in my mouth. I just kinda made noises that no one understood.

I went to bed at about 9:30 and woke up high. I've kinda snapped out of it though — thanks to a frappucino and my girlfriend's ADD medicine.

So my point of this entry? If you've never tried those brownies, do it — but with care. Don't eat more than one. Believe me.

More later.

Wake up, me

2006-01-31T09:34:00.000-06:00

To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Whoa. OK, ol' Spence is having some trouble waking from the trance his was put in last night. Words of advice: Don't. Ever. Eat. Brownies. That. Your. Friend. Made.

Shit. I wasn't just high. I was freaked-out high. You know, you can't say anything because every time you're about to speak you stop because you think you already said it. Then you start having an argument with yourself, which turns into you laughing at yourself, which turns into people thinking you're fucking weird.

Yeah, that's how I felt last night. I was seeing tracers and everything. Not cool. Well, it was cool, but not when I was driving home on the interstate at night time. Don't get me wrong: I love seeing shit. But there's a proper place and time for that. Not driving home at 6:30.

I'm usually not a weed man. I'll smoke it every once in a while, probably averaging to about three times a month. Well, eating this "brownie" was nothing like smoking weed. It takes about 45 minutes for it to hit you. Then it gets stronger. And stronger. I began speaking in another language it seemed like. Every time I opened my mouth to talk, it was like I had the stalk from a huge weed plant stuck in my mouth. I just kinda made noises that no one understood.

I went to bed at about 9:30 and woke up high. I've kinda snapped out of it though — thanks to a frappucino and my girlfriend's ADD medicine.

So my point of this entry? If you've never tried those brownies, do it — but with care. Don't eat more than one. Believe me.

More later.

NGAS -- the new disease

2006-01-30T13:57:00.000-06:00

To: Girl
From: Boy
Date: Babies
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line

I love awkwardness. The uhhh's and ahhh's and oh yeah's. Love 'em. I, myself, don't take joy in feeling awkward per se. However, I love making others feel awkward.

Today, I guess, karma is sticking her nasty little foot in my ass for all the awkward times I've caused for others. I was the jackass that fucked with the new people. All in fun, though. But now, I wish I hadn't. Yes, I have the "new guy" awkward syndrome. You know, the phobia where you actually ponder asking permission to go to the bathroom, or to sit down or to look at, God forbid, a Web site that's not work-related.

It's all self inflicted. The people around me are cool as hell. It's just a matter of knowing what pushes people's buttons — and what'll get you bitch-slapped. Mastering this knowledge takes time. A few lunches, then, if you're lucky, an after-work drink or two (or three or twenty) and in no time, you're part of the family — whether that's a good thing has yet to be determined.

Farewell to the DOG

2006-01-28T17:16:00.000-06:00

To: Bitches
From: Pimps
Date: Hoes
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Well, everyone, this is my last entry from my job at the newspaper. I’ll probably take a three- or four-day break from blogging, but I’ll be back next week. I have to figure out how easily I’ll be able to blog without my co-workers and bosses knowing.

I had a meeting with George W. Bush yesterday. Quite interesting. We talk every now and then. He likes to ask me for advice and what not. I usually end the meeting by putting him in a head lock and making him say “Uncle!”.

It got a little rough yesterday, though:

Dubya: Hey, Spence, how ya doin’, buddy?

Me: Firstly, jackfuck, don’t call me Spence — or buddy. I’m not your friend, your partner, your admirer or even your compatriot. Just call me "Daddy." Secondly, I’m “doin’ ” pretty fucking bad. I’d feel a lot better if I could bitch slap you right now.

Dubya: I’m sorry. Go ahead. Slap me. (Schlack!) Ewww yeah — Poppa like

Me: Goddamn. How’d I know you’d like that? So what the hell are you doing nowadays? Last time I heard, you were invading Americans’ privacy, and trying to justify it with the executive powers that you don’t have.

Dubya: Spence, you need to do some catchin’ up.

Me: OK, you sonuva bitch. If you call me “Spence” one more goddamn time, I’m gonna give you the worst fuckin’ charlie horse you could ever fathom. Got me?

Dubya: Yes, sir. I’m sorry.

Me: Good. Now, do you have access to blogs? Like, say, mine? The Memo?

Dubya: Aheehee, aheehee, yeah, of course we do. I like that picture you had of that good ol’ boy from that movie. Darnit, what was it called? Super Cops?

Me: Super Troopers, ass pirate.

Dubya: Yeah, yeah, I forgot. My daughter loves that movie.

Me: Jenna? Yeah, I know she does.

Dubya: And, might I ask, just how do you know that, Mr. Campbell?

Me: She’s come over to my house before to watch it. A couple times. We always have fun.

Dubya: I didn’t know about this.

Me: George, I think there’s a LOT of stuff you don’t know about Jenna.

Dubya: Well, enlighten me.

Me: Aww man, where do I start? Oh I know! Almost every time Jenna comes over, she’ll put on that blue-jean skirt — kinda like the French woman in that movie — and make me perform a search on her like I was a policeman. She’s really into role play.

She looooooves it in the poopline, too. Whoo! And she can’t get enough of the shocker — you know, where I act like I'm picking up a six-pack?!

Dubya: (Without even batting an eye, he said) Get ‘em. ...

And just like that, I suffered the most deleterious beating of my short life from three Secret Service agents. I tried to talk shit while they were thrashing my face, but one of my teeth was knocked out — I ended up spitting blood and sounding like that blonde from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy when I talked.

All I could muster was, "Tell Laura that Daddy said 'Hello, darlin’!' ... Bitch!"

I love you, Wee Man

2006-01-26T13:52:00.000-06:00

Look at him. Don't glare, though. He WILL kick your ass.

To: Wrestling fans
From: Tiny Tim
Date: All eternity
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

It’s confession time, folks. I hope some of you out there can empathize with me. I have this undeniable obsession with midgets. I love ‘em. They’re so awesome. They always have that cool, I’ll-kick-you-in-the-nuts mentality. Hell yes. I love kicking people in the nuts.

I don’t like the Vern Troyer midgets. Too small. Look like aliens. No I like the ones like Wee Man from Jackass. I just wanna pick him up and carry him on my back, take him to Disney World and kick anyone’s ass that tries to deny him a seat on a ride that has height restrictions.

Then, I’d sponsor him on the midget wrestling circus. I’d call him Li’l John and make him grow braids and wear a platinum grill. Sweet!

Anyone else with me?

Whoa

2006-01-26T11:39:00.000-06:00

Now, I am not bigoted toward anyone. But this motherfucker is weird — in every sense of the word.

Holy shit ... Go K-Fed! Go K-Fed!

2006-01-25T08:51:00.000-06:00

How can you not feel totally fuckin' awesome after looking at this photo?

To: Tha Fans
From: K-Fed Fanatic
Date: Yeah, whateva
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

There are times when music is magical. Inspiring. Touching. All that shit. PopoZao by K-Fed is ALL of it. I mean, OMG, listening to his music makes me want to, like, kill babies and eat koala bears for lunch.

Don’t come to me with this Kevin Federline shit. It’s K-Fed. Kaaaaaaaay Feddddd. Awesome. Why does he get the cool name? I guess he was just born to have good prefixes in his name.

OK, all seriousness aside, the new song ... I love it. He has the lyrical flow of Q-Tip, the enunciation of Talib Kweli and the clever syntax of Sage Francis. Then, after a second listen, it sounds more like Ferris Bueller with Latin flava — which equals totally fuckin’ RAD.

(Yes, I just said rad. Sorry, it won’t happen again.)

Yo, I’m out, but I’ll be back. -- Ice Cube, Predator

My movie ...

2006-01-24T16:19:00.000-06:00

Snowback Mountain

Religion ... ugh

2006-01-24T12:39:00.000-06:00

To: The Congregation
From: Michael
Date: Eternity
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

OK, I’ve left some people sort of wondering what my view on religion, the afterlife and spirituality is altogether. I don’t like to get deep too much, for myriad reasons. One, I like to keep a light mood around here. Two, sometimes when I try to get deep, my writing sometimes ends up sounding like satire. But oh well. Here goes…

Religion has played a large part in my development as a, well, jackass. My mother, whom I rarely talk to, is extremely religions. My father, my best friend and role model, claims to believe in God, but he never pushed it on me. The irony? My dad is a Republican and my mom’s liberal. She has an open mind and is extremely smart, but she has unwavering faith in God.

Anyway, so she took me to church often when I was a child. We weren’t exactly there every Sunday, but at least twice a month. I loathed going to church, even as a child. I had to have unnerved my pastor with all the questions I asked. "So, what happens to people who’ve never heard of Jesus, Pastor Roy?" I’d say. "Well, Spencer, they go to hell." I knew that wasn’t right, but I hadn’t yet found the courage to confront my emotions — even if they were instilled in me by someone else.

As I aged, I went to the little Southern Baptist church less and less. I moved to the gaudy First Assembly of God in North Little Rock. Now, if anyone can make church cool, FAG in North Little Rock can. If you’ve never seen it, it’s beautiful. All glass and white, with a huge sanctuary, a gym, a workout room. And believe me, these people can’t get enough God. They speak in tongues (fuckin’ freaky), pray out loud and praise the Lord for everything.

Not me. I thought it was a crock of shit. Their sole purpose was to get more money. They did everything to attract kids, too — huge youth room, lounge room with pool and pinball tables, big screen TVs, an arcade, ya know, the works. And it worked. They averaged about 400-500 kids each week. My friends and I usually went there to meet girls. I’ve rocked my Jeep a couple times in that parking lot, and God knows how many times we went in there stoned out of our mind.

But for some reason, the pastors there loved me. As I look back now, I know why. They wanted to use me as a tool. I was the “popular guy,” yet I still hung out with the geeks I had all my classes with. People looked up to me, as hard as it is to see it. I was smart, but I always pushed the envelope. I’d tell the teacher when I thought she wrong — you know, the little things that count, but many people never had the balls to do it.

They tried every way possible to get me to come to their side. They invited me on trips, they looked past my horrible profanity problem and they even let me play in the church band (drums). When my parents were in the middle of a divorce, my youth pastor let me stay at his house for a week with his wife and kids, and I still thank them for that.

But one day, I just woke up. I can even remember that morning. I was in 11th grade (so I guess about 16 years old) and I’d just finished reading Brave New World by Aldous Huxley. I had to write my junior paper on the book and Huxley. I remember waking up one morning — in fact the morning after I had finished the book, and feeling ... different.

I began seeing things in a new light. I had so many questions. I began to write, and I didn’t stop. The book questions religion, among other things, and the way society believes almost anything it’s told to believe.

... Here’s what I think. Religion is great ... for some people. For some, going to that altar on Sunday and confronting a drug problem is really helpful. Just not for me. We are confronted with questions every day: How did we get here? What happens when we die? Blah blah blah. First of all, when you die, you do exactly that. You just fucking die. What’s so scary about that? I understand you want to believe that your loved one is in a greater place when he or she suffered so much through life (or at the end of his or her life), but they aren’t. That’s not bad; just look at it as though they’re not suffering anymore.

I just don’t understand why people allow a sweaty minister to badger them into believing what he believes and refuting any other explanation offered by other cultures or religions. It shows gross arrogance and invites repugnance from others.

I think religious radicals in America are just as bad as Jihadists. They live their lives attempting to make others conform to their outlandish beliefs. Fuck you and fuck your beliefs, I tell them. You are one of the biggest inhibitors of America’s intellectual growth. If we were all dumb and gave in to your brainwashing techniques, this country would go just the way you want it.

But no. That will never happen.

Ya know, at first, I merely made a decision not to partake in anything with the religious right. But now, I’m starting to despise anything to do with them. Why is it thought to be appropriate for ministers to hold an alter call at the funeral? Ugh. Look at all the major issues in America. Numerous problems are rooted in orthodox values. Abortion. Gay marriage. Sex education in schools. Separation of church and state. Intelligent Design. Fuck those values.

It is the 21st century, you know. Just do me a favor, if you choose to follow the religious lifestyle, do it because you chose to. Not because you have a drug problem, or are going through a divorce or anything. Don’t let turmoil dictate life choices. Go because you want to. And keep an open mind.

Am I asking too much?

Dead Yuppies Walking

2006-01-23T15:16:00.000-06:00

Wear this if you want people to think you're gay.
To: A&F Pussies
From: Your Worst Nightmare
Date: Lunch time
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

It’s impossible for anyone to hate anything more than I hate Abercrombie & Fitch. I hate A&F more than Jews hate Hitler, more than Pat Roberston hates Jews and more than my dad hates going to get a physical — combined.

Y.U.P.P.I.E.S. There, that says a lot. I fucking hate yuppies. But, you might say, why were you in A&F, Spencer? I like some of their jeans. Shoot me. I usually stick with Lucky’s or Buffalo, but I keep my options open.

Anyhow, I bought a pair of jeans from them less than two months ago. Last night (when I was shit-faced drunk), they ripped ... bad. The whole world could see my ass. Beautiful sight. Not really. I didn’t get too mad because, for one, I’m thinking to myself that they have some kind of policy for poor quality jeans.

So I call the ass pirate manager at lunch time today. He said it’d be great if I had the receipt, to which I replied that I bought them almost two months ago, why would i have a fucking receipt? He said I should come in and he’d take a look at the jeans.

Sometimes I forget how much I fucking loathe the mall. A trip there never fails to make me feel dumber. I hate the smell of freshly spruced floor tile. I hate the sound of cash registers, pretentious jackasses talking on cell phones and 4,000 salesman asking me the same goddamn questions. UGH.

A&F, though, always held a different place in my heart. My best friend, Josh, refuses to go in there. If I ever had any business in there, he’d wait outside. In fact, I used to date a girl that worked there, and I’d have to tell her to come outside if he was with me. I hate it almost as much as Josh. I always make an attempt to be extremely rude to at least two employees before I leave — just for the hell of it.

I don’t know if it’s the deafening, queer techno music playing or the ostentatious numskull employees — or, perhaps, a combination of both — that I hate about A&F so much. But if I believed in a heaven, it would be a place where I’d be stuck in a video game where I get to hunt and kill A&F employees, as well as the musicians that fill the speakers in their stores.

I actually had a friend that worked there. He was more of a guy I put up with because I liked his girlfriend (with whom I had a grrrrrrrreat night). He told me it was a “privilege” to be offered a job at A&F. Really? A privilege? I think it’s a privilege for those employees to help me when I’m there without me kicking the living shit out of them. It’s a privilege of mine to belittle an A&F employee without them even figuring it out until I’m out of the store.

OK, back to my story. So I get there at lunch today, the conversation with the manager goes somewhat like this:

Ass pirate manager: “Are those the jeans?”

Me: (Thinking to myself, “No, numbnuts, I brought these to joke around with you. I actually shoved those jeans up my ass so I could protect them.’) “Yeah, see the hole?”

Ass pirate manager: “Oh, that’s bad. How did that happen?” he said, while looking at the rip that goes from my ass crack down to the back of my knee.

Me: “I bent over.”

Ass pirate manager: “You’ve had these for a month and a half? (I nod in agreement.) Do you have the receipt?”

Me: “I told you over the phone that I didn’t have the receipt.”

Ass pirate manager: “Oh, that’s right, that’s right. Well, as the manager, I’m supposed to make a judgment call. ... And based on the condition of the jeans, they look a lot older than that.”

(Note: He’s talking in questions the whole fucking time. Be assertive, asshole. He sounds like a fifth-grade girl when he’s trying to be stern. Pussy.)

Me: “The condition? The condition of these jeans is the reason I brought them up here. They fucking ripped. What’d you think they’d look like?”

Ass pirate manager: “Well, I don’t know what to tell you. I had to make a judgment call, and there’s not really anything else to do.”

Me: “Well if I would have known the result of my whole trip would’ve been determined by the judgment of a manager at Abercrombie & Fitch, I could’ve saved both of our time.”

Ass pirate manager: “What are you trying to say?”

Me: “Idiot. I’ll piss on your goddamn judgment.” (I then proceeded to wad up the jeans and throw them at him, after which he flinched like a girl and made a pouting face. Bitch. — Oh, and if you're doubting I actually said that last line, believe it. I always say "I'll piss on..." It's a habit of mine.)

See, one day, I’ll be banned from the mall. I’ll have to come to an agreement with them that I’ll stay out of all the stores as long as I can still get one of the Philly steak sandwiches from Great Steak and Potato Co. Goddamn, those are fucking awesome.

Fucking A&F pussies. I. Hope. You. Get. Hit. By. A. Bus. Full. Of. Boy. Scouts. And. Their. Gay. Scout. Leaders.

Dammit ... I didn't wanna do this

2006-01-20T13:29:00.000-06:00

To: Homeboi
From: Dope dizzle
Date: Yesteryear
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

I’m a little late jumping on this bandwagon, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Due to the dearth of story ideas, I’m gonna go ahead and list my five worst habits.

I’m usually against lists because, frankly, I think they’re for homos. But I’ve seen cool people (Marla included) go ahead with them, so I’ll follow suit. Here goes:

5) I hate people before I know them. So, yes, if I don’t know you, I fucking hate you. I don’t exactly treat everyone like shit. I’m just one of those people that, instead of looking for a reason not to like you, I try to find traits that would make me like you — kinda the opposite of most people.

Living in Arkansas, this is not a good formula because, for one, I absolutely abhor organized religion. I think it’s a detriment to our society, and our world would be far greater were it not for it. Um, yeah, that was kinda heavy. Sorry.

4) I judge people ... quickly. This habit kinda goes hand-in-hand with #5 — so what, shut the fuck up. (I’m tryin here.) I usually place people in categories: Superficial numskull with blonde hair that sucks men dry; art-chic liberal that’s incessantly protesting against nothing (the whole stick-it-to-the-man mentality); goddamn hippies, ugh; frat-boy prick that’s waiting to come out of the closet; the cool, don’t-give-a-fuck clan — smart people that have reached the point in their life where they can just laugh at our world and the little things which people fret over every day.

3) I’m not always totally honest — and sometimes I’m too honest. I’m sorry, but if you ask me what I think of you, I will tell you. If I like you, I probably won’t be totally honest. If I don’t like you, beware — I’ve probably been waiting for the chance to tell you how much I hate you (and what, exactly, it is that I hate about you).

2) I loooooove to get fucked up. I’m not as bad as I was in high school (I’d do pretty much any drug you put in front of me), but I have relapses. The thing is, I don’t have an addictive personality. I’ve never been addicted to anything. I’m just addicted to forgetting some of the problems I have on this planet. If I feel like popping a couple Vicodin or smoking a bowl or drinking an 18 pack or even eating a gram of mushrooms, I will. Then, every once in a while, I don’t mind snorting a few lines and having a long, drawn-out, deep conversation on politics and religion that my friends and I will laugh at the next day.

Sue me. I like drugs. And please, don’t send me any comment about how you’re worried about my health. These are recreation drugs, and I use them for just that — recreation. I’m not a druggie, so spare me.

1) I keep forgetting that I’m only 20. I have my whole life ahead of me — kind of. I just grew up a little too fast. I work 60-65 hours a week, and sometimes I forget that I need to just sit back and have fun.

Who the fuck am I kidding? That’s why god made drugs.

The Snake and the Rat — part two

2006-01-20T10:16:00.001-06:00

The air is brutally cold when he leaves the pet store. The man hurries to his SUV in order to get his new pet out of the cold. The snake hardly moves.

The children love the snake. The little girl fearlessly picks it up and rubs the back of its head, marveling at its texture. The snake obliges. Later, the girl slithers around on the living room floor acting like her new best friend; the man and his wife watch in amusement. The snake, in a very short time, has become a part of the family.

Tonight is the true test, though. After the man tucks away the little girl and rocks the baby to sleep, he creeps to the snake’s cage. The owner of the pet store suggested he place the snake where the man had seen the rat in previous instances. The man places the snake beind the couch, he figures there might be a hole in the wall because it seemed as though the rat always found its way back there.

He turned the heat up slightly and lay the snake on the cold hardwood floor. The snake immediately went under the couch and, now out of vision, out of the man’s worries. He slept confidently. He dreamed about Charlize Thereon watching him from the press box at Yankee Stadium. He hit a home run; the crowd went crazy. In his dream.

During the night the snake made its way around the house, curious and ravenous, yet unassuming. The snake waited patiently for his prey, which he could see now, making its way into the kitchen. The rat stopped just before the refrigerator. The snake could move any time now, but it didn’t. There’s a certain beauty attained only by something so helpless. Its defenselessness makes the prey look pure and harmless, like a flower waiting for the blades of the lawnmower.

The snake saw this beauty, this vulnerability. And it watched. Then, it made its move. The rat didn’t have a chance. The snake was too powerful, too fast and too smart.

The man awoke before his alarm clock sounded. The owner told him to be patient, but this snake was different, he thought. He approached the couch cautiously, only to find a bare floor and a couple forgotten toys underneath. He was surprised when he walked back to the kitchen to see the snake resting in its cage, motionless, with a large object protruding from his lengthy body.

Even though he anticipated this, the man was surprised. He ran back to his room to wake his unsuspecting wife. He yelled her name, but she didn’t budge. He decided to let her sleep; she had a long day of work ahead of her. Her alarm clock would be sounding any minute now anyway.

He looked behind the couch for signs of anything that maybe once was.

The Snake and the Rat — a story (part one)

2006-01-19T11:50:00.000-06:00

The snake and the rat

Look at the man. He looks tired, as if he’s slept with one eye open for far too long. No matter how long he presses his high-end dress clothes, they still look wrinkled. He’s wrinkled. His work’s suffering. Drugs, maybe? No, but he has a problem — more precisely, a rat problem.

He doesn’t know if it’s one, two or five rats, but he’s seen at least one. Over and over. From what bird’s eye views he’s had, the rat looks about nine inches long. The rat’s thick, dark brown fur resembles berber carpet from afar. It moves quickly, and the rat’s long, hairless tail is the best indication the man’s dealing with a rodent instead of a cat. It’s fat ... Really fat. And it’s eyes glisten, even in the dark of night.

He has dreams about the rat. Visions of the rat nibbling on his wife’s delectable cheesecake and leaving the house slipshod with various piles of droppings fill his mind at night, instead of his normal dreams fantasizing about his favorite movie star or about playing for the Yankees. The rat has become an obsession — one of detestation and embarrassment.

The man’s also scared. He has two children — one infant approaching his first birthday and a 6-year-old girl. Beautiful kids, they really are. He worries what might happen if the rat sneaks into their room. What if it already has? Rats can have rabies, right? Scary. But the man knows his outgoing little girl would tell him if she made such a curious find.

The man’s had enough. He decides to do something about it. The light bulb in his mind ignites. He’s found just the remedy for this problem.

He called an extermination service and receives little hope. He enters the local pet store, curious to what he might find. The owner of the pet store greets him as he passes the guinea pigs. “Can I help you, sir?” said the noticeably aged man, wearing a vibrant yellow polo shirt and shiny white shoes. The owner has a fluffy salt-and-pepper beard that seamlessly makes its way from his cheeks to his neck on his pudgy face. His voice scratches the man’s ears like a cat’s tongue across a cotton ball.

“I have a problem,” said the man. “I have at least one rat in my house that I can’t get rid of. Can you help?”

“Ah-hah,” said the owner. He seemed excited, like he’d been waiting for the man all his life. Chuckling, he wobbled over to the other side of the store and nearly grazed the man with his shoulder as he passed him.

“A snake?” queried the man, almost hoping the owner was jesting.

“Tried and true method for eliminating rats,” said the owner as-a-matter-of-factly. The man looked puzzled.

“Are they safe? I have children, you know.”

“Of course, of course,” said the owner. “The snake is harmless. All you must do is let him out of his cage before you go to bed and place him back in before you go to work. Your little rat problem will be eradicated.”

The man surveyed the snake. No snakes look harmless, but he’s never had a problem with them. In fact, he had a pet snake in college. He took the snake out of his cage and caressed its cold, black skin. The snake lay there helpless, reveling in the attention it was receiving.

The man had found his match.

Part two coming soon.

Patriotism sucks

2006-01-18T10:13:00.000-06:00

To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

I was kinda in a bad mood this morning, so just like I do every time I'm not in a good mood, I listen to Bill Hicks. No matter how mad I am, I can't help but laugh. One reason I like listening to him so much is because I agree with the majority of things he says. It's also amazing to me how things he said 10-12 years ago are still extremely relative today.

One of my favorite tracks on his CD "Rant in E-Minor" is the one about patriotism. He suggests changing the face of our flag, replacing the stars and stripes with pictures of our parents fucking. Now if that wouldn't make people cringe when saying the Pledge of Allegiance, I don't know what would.

Personally (concurring with Bill Hicks), I hate patriotism. To me it's another form of religion and another way to judge people. My question is this: How can anyone love our country right now? Honestly.

I hate how the goddamn government reiterates every time they can that the Army is fighting for our country and our freedom. Bullshit. I also hate how protesting the war will draw remarks such as, "How can you turn your back on your country and our soldiers when they're fighting for you?" or "You're a fucking traitor."

Fighting for me? Pshhh... Traitor? OK numbnuts, this isn't the 18th century. Just because I don't pitch a tent in my pants when the flag is raised, I'm a fucking traitor? Well, then I guess you should prepare to hang, draw and quarter me.

I think patriotism, to an extent, is healthy. I sincerely want to love my country. But I'd be a fucking liar if I said I did. Sometimes I fake it because, really, I don't feel like engaging in a deep conversation every minute of every day.

Then again, maybe I'm looking at our country the wrong way. Should I look at it like I look at my brother, the fuck up? No matter how many times he gets drunk and wants to fight me, or yell at his kids, or start shit with my dad, I still love him. He tries to do right. Then, of course, numerous times he knows what he's doing is wrong and he does it with a smile on his face.

I don't know, but I'm tired of arguing with myself.

Gay gay gay gay

2006-01-17T14:56:00.000-06:00

To: Spongebob
From: Cartman
Date: Tomorrow
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

I was reading my buddy Lindsay’s blog (you should read it, she’s a bright little ray of sunshine) and she brought up a great point. Is America done being gay, yet? I mean damn.

I didn’t watch the Golden Globes last night because, well, that would’ve went against everything for which I stand — plus I can’t stand to sit there while my girlfriend criticizes every actress’s outfit. However, I did read the list of winners; therefore, I can stay up to date on the goings-on of that shithole otherwise known as Hollywood.

First things first, know that I have nothing against homosexuals (I refuse to refer to them as “gays”). Even though it grosses me the fuck out, true love is true love is true love, whether it be man, woman or beast.

With that said, look at this list of winners from last night and tell me you don’t see a pattern:
• Best Motion Picture — Brokeback Mountain. The “groundbreaking” movie about two cowboys who fall in love with each other got a few awards.
• Best Performance by an Actress in a Motion Picture — Felicity Huffman in Transamerica. Hmm... Fuckin’ tranny! Ha! (Sorry, that’s the best I could do.)
• Best Performance by an Actor in a Motion Picture — Phillip Seymour Hoffman in Capote. Imagine that. Hoffman wins for portraying Truman Capote — a homosexual/pedophile/fucking weirdo.

Brokeback Mountain also garnered the awards for Best Director, Best Screenplay and Best Original Song. Excuse me, Hollywood. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s sooo gay to be gay right now.

So this queer cowboy movie is supposed to be groundbreaking, eh? So sorry to rain on your gay parade, but it’s not. Two guys making out in a scene of Gone with the Wind would’ve been groundbreaking. Queen Latifah taking it doggy style from a horse in Beautyshop would’ve been groundbreaking — and fucking gross. But you get my point, right?

Let’s explore this term “groundbreaking.” Mmmk... As in breaking new ground for something that’s never been seen before — or at least a compelling new version of something we already have. If you’re talking excitement from McDonald’s breaking new ground, I understand. But when I think of groundbreaking, I’m thinking that’s like an IKEA being built in Little Rock — farcical.

You had your spotlight, Gay America. Now, I think Hollywood should do a remake of Beauty and the Beast — “Harriet and the Horse” or “Gary and the Goat.” Sound interesting? I think so.

I'm over it

2006-01-16T16:35:00.000-06:00

To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Well, it ‘s 4:20 right now (when I started writing), so I decided to get over my little tantrum. And I’m NOT going to talk about Bush.

Something happened to me last night that really chapped my ass. OK, so as you all should know, I’m only 20 years old. Moreover, I loooooove to drink. I have a favorite bar that I go to — all the time. Most of the waitresses that work there know that I’m not 21. They don’t care. There are two people, I guess, that don’t know I’m under 21: The owner and the waitress that was waiting on me last night.

Also, something you should know, I work at a bar two blocks away from my favorite spot. Everyone there knows I’m not 21. They all know that I drink at my bar all the time and have all agreed that if they see me there, it’s no biggie.

OK, insert stupid butt-slut into the story now. ... This lethargic, insecure, pitiful excuse for a piece of shit waitress, Kim, sees me at the bar. See, Kim and I have our little spats from time to time, like all cooks and waitresses do. But this fuckin inebriated whore crossed the goddamn line.

Her drunken ass stumbles up to my table, where I’m talking to this beautiful waitress (and we were actually having a decent conversation), and shouts, “Hey, hey, HE’S not 21!” Pointing her finger straight at me, she repeats until the waitress stops and acknowledges that she even spoke.

The dumbfounded waitress didn’t believe and looked at me, half-smiling, and said, “Yeah, right. She’s lying ... isn’t she?” Well, that’s the gist of the story. I got to finish my drinks, the waitress got over it, and I told Kim to go off herself at her table.

This is what I don’t understand. What would you get out of telling someone something like that? Immediately, you are branded an asshole by everyone who hears about it. The same thing happened to me about a year ago, but luckily I had a fake ID on me. But, I want to know, who are you helping when you do shit like that?

There are too many people in the world like that bitch, Kim. Don’t be mad at me because you’re life is a fucking bulging ball of mediocrity. Fuck you. Have a nice day. : )

Another day, another disgrace

2006-01-16T14:45:00.000-06:00

Sorry, guys. I just can't find it in myself to write anything today. When will our country stop killing innocent peopel?

Hmm...

2006-01-13T10:13:00.000-06:00

To: Momma
From: Daddy
Date: Down Yonder
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

I don't know if it was what I drank last night — a couple liquid cocaines and some beer, but I feel fucking weird today. While on my way home at 7:00 this morning, I caught the sunrise over the river as I crossed Broadway bridge. We had some pretty bad storms last night and the clouds were leaving just in time for dawn. I actually caught myself thinking, "Wow, this is beautiful. I wish I had a camera."

Ya know what I've come to realize, though? (Caution: I'm getting off the subject.) Most of the time we end up saying, "Damn, I wish I had a camera," it's usually best that we didn't — for myriad reasons. I say during different occasions. The situation may be similar to this morning, where I see something beautiful that I want to show everyone. Then, of course, I may have slept with a beautiful girl and need a picture to prove to my friends. (Then, of course, that proves that I'm a pig.)

But cameras can't always say what we were feeling. Oftentimes, they can, but not always. Plus, not having a camera gives way to great storytelling and bullshitting — an area in which I excel tremendously.

OK, so anyway. Yeah, I feel fucking weird today. I almost feel ... I guess, high. I can't help but smile — and it's kinda freakin' me out. So bear with me.

I think I'm happy because one of the girls I work with is leaving. To give you a little insight as to what I think of this girl, I'll re-enact a conversation I had with my new editor.

Ass Pirate Editor: "So, what exactly is it that everybody, and especially you, Spencer, doesn't like about [Freaky Bitch Murder]?"

Me: "Well, [Ass Pirate Editor], it's hard to say I dislike her as a person because, as you know, she's extremely nice. But, it's what I dislike about her... Let me put it this way: She is everything that's wrong with our society — all balled up into one shitball of a person."

Ass Pirate Editor: "Oh. I didn't know you felt that strongly about her."

She's a small-town girl. She's psycho-religious. She, honest to god, wants 10 — ten — fucking kids. Pro-life. Close-minded. Shallow. You name it.

So yeah, I guess it's nice to get her out of the office. Good riddance.

Biaaaaatch.

Check out the dancing white boy

2006-01-12T13:15:00.000-06:00

... Fucking hilarious.

Dance, White Boy, Dance

A little quirk of mine ...

2006-01-11T10:09:00.000-06:00

To: The Pub-lick
From: Big Brother
Date: Two day before the day after tomorrow
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

I have an extremely bad, hmm, I guess you could call it an idiosyncrasy. It exposed itself when news surfaced of Bush undermining the FISA act, therefore allowing the CIA to spy on American citizens.

My little eccentricity is this: I tend to not read or listen to news stories that could possibly have a huge effect on society — call it my attempts to sweep them under the rug. I want to believe that it’s not happening. I want to think somebody’s just fucking with me.

But eventually, these stories will hit me like an uppercut from Mike Tyson. Bam! What the fuck? This really is happening. It is legal now for my government to tap my phone and read my e-mails without iniquity or provocation.

“Eavesdropping,” they like to call it.

Was I really reading this headline? “Bush: Eavesdropping helps save U.S. lives.” Are you fucking kidding me? The shocking news, to me at least, is that this isn’t new. The government has been doing this since October 2001.

And Bush, being the piece of shit that he is, uses scare tactics, yet again, to justify his actions. Instead of trying to fully explain himself and our government, or maybe even give a few detailed examples of how this could be integral to our safety, Bush cops an attitude with America.

According to the story, “Often appearing angry in an eight-minute address [eight fucking minutes?!], the president made clear he has no intention of halting his authorizations of the monitoring activities and said public disclosure of the program by the news media had endangered Americans.”

Go ahead, Dubya. I thought you might forget to mention 9/11. I was wrong. “The activities I have authorized make it more likely that killers like these 9/11 hijackers will be identified and located in time,” Bush said. “And the activities conducted under this authorization have helped detect and prevent possible terrorist attacks in the United States and abroad.”

Oh, really? Any examples? No. He hardly had any time in his eight-minute address.

Nevertheless, it’s time to look at the big picture. Bush broke the law. Let that sink in for a minute. ... Yes, he broke the law. But he doesn’t believe so. “The American people expect me to do everything in my power under our laws and Constitution to protect them and their civil liberties,” Bush said.

“And that is exactly what I will continue to do, so long as I’m the president of the United States.”

The funny thing is, Dubya, that you don’t have the authority to do that. A professor of constitutional law at Georgetown University Law Center said Bush was “taking a hugely expansive interpretation of the Constitution and the president’s powers under the Constitution.” In other words, she was saying, “Hey, he can’t do that.”

All hail King George Jr. It’s funny the way he puts it. He said the program is employed only to intercept the international communications of people inside the U.S. who have been determined to have “a clear link” to al-Qaida or related terrorist organizations.

Then, Mr. President, why would there be any problem getting approval from the court to “eavesdrop” if someone had “a clear link” to a terrorist organization? There wouldn’t be a problem. It’s all bullshit.

I’m sick of this administration manipulating laws and even American minds at the expense of our guaranteed freedoms. I’m also sick of Americans thinking we can’t do anything about it.

My favorite part of the whole news story? Bush saying the news media acted improperly and illegally when they disclosed the story in the New York Times.

Yeah, shame on you media. What America doesn’t know isn’t going to hurt it.

Gayest Joke of the Day, part 2

2006-01-10T14:43:00.000-06:00

Gayest joke of the day question: What do you call two Mexicans playing basketball?

Gayest answer: Juan-on-Juan.

ha. ha. fucking ha.

Stop clapping ... damn

2006-01-10T13:51:00.000-06:00

To: Bitches and Pricks
From: Daddy
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

I'm happy to announce to you, yes YOU, that I, Spencer Campbell, have been selected as an intern for the Oxford American Magazine. Fucking awesome.

I'll be leaving the Democrat. But I should be able to continue my blog over there. If not, I'll probably have to go to the library a couple days a week or something. We'll see.

If you haven't ever heard of the Oxford American, check it out.

I had some help getting it from Girl Arkansas. If you haven't ever checked out her blog, you should. It's fucking hilarious.

I'm trying to get one of my friends that's a bad ass graphic designer to do some work on this blog. I'm getting kinda sick of blue.

Anyway, I'm out for now. Check out this really cool band Charlie saw while vacationing in the south of France: Metallic Banana.

I hate new bosses

2006-01-09T13:25:00.000-06:00

To: The Office
From: Your Goddamn Master
Date: Evermore
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

As you've probably come to know, I hate — well, — pretty much everything. But I embrace this dark part of my personality. I cuddle it. Feed it soy milk. (I used to breast feed it, but that fucker has some sharp teeth.) In other words, I've come to terms with the chip, or should I say "fucking boulder," on my shoulder. Hey, that has a nice ring to it: Fucking boulder on my shoulder. Ha!

Every waking day, I find something new to hate. For instance, on Saturday I came to the conclusion that I will never, ever, again buy those clear lighters from the E-Z Mart in Stifft's Station. They were made and distributed by Lucifer himself and are about as useful as a deaf, blind and dumb tour guide.

Today, I realized that I hate new bosses. Not new bosses as in, say, a job I just started. I'm talking about a cool boss leaving and a new jackfuck ass pirate taking his place. I've been pretty blessed throughout my young life with cool fucking bosses.

When I say "cool" bosses, I don't mean the ones that try to be my best friend and end up jeopardizing their authoritative tilt on the administrative scale. No, I mean the firm-but-fair boss that I can get high or drunk with after work. The one that will tell me to straighten up or, if need be, chew my ass out for something on which I fucked up.

Well that boss is long gone. And the new boss? you might ask. Deep breath, Spencer. OK.

Firstly, picture Johnny Cash meets Matthew Broderick. There's just something not fucking write about that, is there? My new boss, whom I will refer to as AP (ass pirate), wears all black, all the time. Sounds cool, right? Wrong. Despite wearing all black, he's gayed up like my 7-year-old niece's lunch box.

Ya know, I feel bad. I’m usually not like this. I usually like someone until they give me a reason not to. But not in this case. I just don’t like this motherfucker. At all. He has one of those smug, "I went to a private Christian college so I think I'm smarter than you" looks on his face. He was home-schooled throughout his childhood and into high school, which explained a lot to me. However, being home-schooled doesn't give you the OK to be a goddamn jackass.

Charlie and I were sitting in our office the other day and we realized something. It feels like I'm stuck at one of those parties I promised one of my dorky friends I'd go to. Ya know, just one of those places you show up just because you promised you would and then you go on to a real party or club or whatever. "Eeeeeevery day," said Charlie. Every fucking day we are stuck in that situation. Pity us, please.

Out of the 5 people we work with, two were home-schooled and both went to John Brown University in Siloam Springs, and one girl grew up in Greers Ferry (population around 500) and went to Ouachita Baptist University. Hold on. Let me scrape the throw-up taste off my tongue.

Before I know it, I'm gonna be forced to look at myself in the mirror with tears in my eyes, saying, "I am NOT a bad person!" sniff sniff. Ah, fuck that.

I’m tired of writing. Check out this fucking hilarious Web site: Steve Don’t Eat It.

On the miners that passed away ...

2006-01-04T13:07:00.000-06:00

To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

As if Americans needed another example of the utter incompetence on display by corporate heads and our government: Ladies and gentlemen, Exhibit A — Tallmansville, West Virginia.

As improbable as it may sound, I know how the families of the fallen miners actually feel, but it was sort of the other way around. Let me explain:

In 2002 my girlfriend, Amber, was woken by a phone call from her shaken mother. Amber could barely understand her mom, and just standing next to her, I could hear her quivering voice and slight squeals.

The police had just contacted her mom and told her that her son, Amber’s brother Jason — whom my brother was best friends with, was found dead. He was driving his father’s Mazda Miata on a curvy road in the outskirts of a suburb of Little Rock and lost control at approximately 110 mph.

Amber’s mom and dad were about to leave to go identify the body. The police had to trace the license plate to Amber’s house because the body was badly marred and no wallet with identification was found.

Meanwhile, my brother and I set out on a trip I’ll never forget. We went to the house where Justin was living with two other roommates — all of whom had been friends since childhood. I didn’t know what to say to my brother, and to say I was regretting this trip is a gross understatement.

We arrived at the apartment, and Chad answered the door. It was obvious they had experienced a long night. There was still cocaine residue on the coffee table. Empty vodka bottles were strewn across the room. Someone was passed out on the couch, fully clothed, with shoes on and everything.

My brother, with a look on his face that I’ll never forget, simply said, “We need to talk. Outside.” Chad took it pretty well, but he wanted to go and wake up Chris, the other roommate, and let him know.

We let Chad go by himself. He was closer to Chris than he was to Justin. Justin was closer to Chris than he was to Chad. Then I heard the weirdest shriek/scream/”what the fuck” sound in my life.

My brother and I ran in the room to find Justin wiping the sleep from his eyes asking what the fuck our problem was.

... To make a long story short, the police assumed it was Justin who was driving the car and immediately called his parents without checking, well, anything. The cop that made the initial call didn’t call back to say he fucked up. A desk cop that never leaves the office was forced to call a mother and tell her that her son was NOT dead; instead his best friend is dead.

I know that these instances are sticky. Shit happens. To a certain extent. It’s not like no one did nothing wrong. At least one person fucked up, got excited and told someone that the miners were alive. And as angry as people — me included — may be, it doesn’t do any good to belittle that person any more.

Think about going to sleep every night knowing that you’ve cause the worst grief that 12 families have ever experienced. Think of how many people were affected by this shit. No words you could say to the person who “miscommunicated” could ever hurt him or her as much as they are already.

That one instance with Justin and Chris sent ripples throughout that small suburb, with everyone questioning the police department’s capabilities and some even demanding the expulsion of a handful of officers.

In no way is this forgivable or forgettable. But grieve, and try your best to get on with your life. It should never give anyone pleasure to kick a man while he’s down.

Top Ten Lists ... A little late

2006-01-03T15:37:00.000-06:00

To: Unsuspecting reader
From: Suspecting writer
Date: Shush!
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Well I guess I need to do that whole Ten Things I Liked/Hated About 2005 bullshit because, well, everyone else is doing it. I’m usually totally against them, but it seems as though people are thoroughly interested in these lists.

Here goes...

Top Ten Things I Liked About 2005:

10. OK, I’m already going blank. That’s a bad sign. Maybe it should’ve been Top Five. Anyway, I guess I could say I’m happy with my love life over the last year. See, I’m complicated. I — being the pig that I am — like having sex, a lot. But I like having a girlfriend.

This year I was pretty good with her. I’ve been with this girl on and off for about four years — that’s a long fucking time. I didn’t cheat on her this year. I just did the more immature break-up-before-you-cheat shit. I know it’s shitty, and I really don’t wanna hear about it from any of you. Next subject, goddamn.

9. I liked my work life the last year. We’ve had a bunch of ups and downs but I got three raises and more responsibilities thrown at me. Although it’s probably not easy to tell, I’m a fucking workaholic. I work a little too much, but I’m making good money.

8. I liked the weather in 2005. Every day people have been bitching about how it feels out-of-season outside. Shut the fuck up. Who cares? Ya know, I really don’t give a fuck when I can wear shorts in December. I know it hasn’t rained much, either, but that’s cool with me. I fucking hate rain. Notwithstanding, I know farmers — and the state as a whole — are losing money, but I don’t care. I mean I do, but... ah, nevermind.

7. I liked the movies in 2005. See, I’m different. I like it when movies are supposed to be fucking HUGE and they just flop. It makes me laugh. hehe. ...See?

6. I liked my purchase of headphones for my computer at work. I love being able to act like I’m listening to music when people are talking. I love being able to switch the music to my mood. And I absolutely love it when my bible-banger boss walks in my office and I can take the headphones out of my computer and blast Pantera or Ministry.

5. C

4. C

3. C

2. C

1. I liked discovering the wide world of blogging. I started a blog about two years ago, but I was unsure how to go about it. Every time I tried to write something, it felt like I was trying to come up with a speech in front of an empty auditorium.

I’ve discovered the secret, though. You don’t give a fuck who’s reading. You just write, and let it pour. Make it as short or as long as you want. If it’s good, people will read it. If it’s bad, people will read it and then tell you how bad it is. And essentially, let everything off your fucking chest. And cuss, cuss a lot.

Ten Things I [Fucking] Hated About 2005

10. I hated coverage of Hurricane Katrina. I totally sympathize for the millions of people affected by that god-awful storm. But in America’s time of need, the last fucking thing we need is Geraldo Rivera putting on a show, acting like he actually gives a fuck. I wanted to choke the shit out of him when I saw that bullshit.

9. I hated the cars that were introduced. OK, GM and Ford... You’re getting a little out of hand. Some of these new cars are fucking retarded — in regards to looks and price. Go back to the goddamn drawing board.

8. I hated George Goddamn W. Bush. I’ll always hate him, but I think in 2005, I hated him the most. He seems to have that smug, “Get used to it, bitches, because I’m here for another three years” look on his face. Everything his opponents said about him ended up being true, and NOW his approval ratings are down. God, people are fucking stupid.

I could go on forever. But I won’t.

7. I hated new music. There are no good bands that came out last year. Did The Killers come out in 2005? If so, then they are the exception to my hate. I’m so tired of the bullshit bands coming out today. Ugh.

6. I hated VH1. Ya know, I didn’t mind the I Love the 80s shit. Kinda cool, kinda funny. But for fuck sake, talk about overkill. Three times. Three fucking times you talk about shit you loved in the 80s. And then I Love the 90s? What the fuck. That was six years ago. I’ll piss on six years. That ain’t shit.

5. C

4. C

3. C

2. C (I’m trying to make this short.)

1. I hated, and still hate, the Iraq war. The War on Terror, eh? Fuck the war on terror and fuck you if you support it. There is no threat to our country. That is smoke being blown up our ass. That’s like saying let’s start a war on pregnancy. It’s always gonna be there. We can take measures to prevent it, but no matter what you do, who you blow up, whatever — it’s still gonna happen.

I truly feel for the soldiers and their families. Ya know why? Because they’re dying for nothing. Yeah, I said it. They are being brainwashed to think that they are fighting for our “freedom.” How fucking vague is that? Our freedom. They’re fighting another country’s war. And for what? Our freedom. If my freedom costs the lives of over 2,000 soldiers, you can fucking have it. I don’t want that burden on my shoulders.

Any time I think the public is close to realizing how we’re getting bent over every day, Bush gives one of those speeches. Ya know, where he basically threatens everyone, literally knowing that millions of people are actually paying attention to his bullshit. “Your freedom is at risk,” he’ll say. No. No, it’s not. And if it is, it’s your fucking fault. It’s also your fault that my goddamn cousin never got to see his son. How the hell do you sleep at night?

... Whew. Sorry for getting a little serious. Now ya know what bugs me. : )

Ahh... Long time, no see

2006-01-03T07:01:00.000-06:00

To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Well, folks. My vacationing days are over. I had to fucking work on New Year's, and yes, it sucked. I got to make fun of all the drunk asses ringing in the New Year. I also saw some of the ass eaters I went to high school with. God I hate those motherfuckers. I think I started something on Scientology before I left... so here I go.

Ahhh. I remember now. I was feeling a little woozy from the pain meds. (Woozy? What the fuck? Where did that word come from?) Well I'm not in near as good of a mood today. I'm not listening to "Dazed and Confused," rather I'm listening to "Hooker with a Penis" by Tool. Never heard of it? Here's the chorus, to give you a little clue as to how I'm feeling today:

"All you know about me is what I've sold you, dumb fuck. I sold out long before you ever even heard my name. I sold my soul to make a record, dip shit, and then you bought one. ... Well, I've got some advice for you, little buddy. Before you point your finger, you should know that I'm the man. And if I'm the fucking man and your the man, as well, then you can point that fucking finger up your ass."

Isn't that sweet?

Anyway, so about this ass pirate L. Ron Hubbard and his queer ass religion. Ass ass ass, yeah I say "ass" a lot. I remember hearing about Scientology for the first time. It was when news surfaced about Tom Cruise choosing the Scientology route, therefore inadvertently announcing his idiocy. I thought to myself, "Hmm... What is this Scientology shit? It must be cool if TOM CRUISE believes it. And Beck. And John Travolta, too!" Sorry about the exclamation point (and the all-caps).

So I went online to check it out. And yes, I fell into the trap. I took the "Free Personality Test!" (Goddammit, I swear, no more exclamation points are coming.) South Park creators Trey Parker and Matt Stone hit the nail on the head (sorry for the lack of of a better phrase) when they portrayed the Scientologist ass pirate asking Stan those fucking-Duh! questions.

"So, Mr. Blah-blah, do you ever feel like there's something you'd like to change about yourself?" Well, no fucking shit. Ya know, now that I think about it, this L. Ron guy wasn't that stupid. I wish I would've thought about asking people demeaning questions, making people question their own self-worth and self-confidence, therefore making them feel alienated and ostracized by society. In their minutes of helplessness, I'll offer them a new religion as solace. Hell yeah.

It'd almost be kinda cool if Scientology was thought up by L. Ron after numerous LSD-induced hallucinations. It's just gay that he thought it up on his own. I'll read any writing that people thought up when their Third Eye was wide fucking open (see, "The Doors of Perception" by Aldous Huxley), but L. Ron Hubbard was a goddamn science fiction writer. Wait, something didn't sound right about that. Science... Fiction... Yeah that's it: Fiction, bitches. Goddammit.

OK, I'm done for now. To quote Ice Cube on The Predator:

"Ya know I'm out, but I'll be back."

Dazed and confused

2005-12-29T13:41:00.000-06:00

To: Man
From: Mankind
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Ahh... I just turned on "Dazed and Confused" by Led Zeppelin. I'm probably annoying the shit out of my office roommate Charlie, but aaaah... fuh-gedda bout it. I think I have a beautiful voice. harharhar.

That song kinda fits me today. I'm — surprisingly — not in a bad mood. I'm not in a good mood, either ... bitches. I'm a little dazed from my pain medication for my back. Add a sprinkle of confusion — embellished by my Vicodin consumption, and that's the recipe for something I like to call "The Antithesis of Productivity."

In the midst of my hiatus from hatefulness, I managed to squeak in some feelings from hatred; however, the somewhat euphoric feeling I have right now is allowing me to laugh it off. Fighting off hatred, I managed to come up with a thought in the form of a question:

Is Scientology not the dumbest, dorkiest, most ignominious "religion"/cult — whatever the hell it is — that has ever graced the face of society?

This is Part One (because I've got to get the hell outta here), Part Two tomorrow.

MTV Sucks (thanks, Charlie)

2005-12-28T15:13:00.000-06:00

To: Bob
From: Joe Bob
Date: Whuh?
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Thanks to my office cohort Charlie, I have a topic for today's blog. MTV ... What a shit pile. Reflect on that for a minute.

MTV: Music Television. As in, television to show music videos, promote new bands and so forth. The only fucking time I get to see any videos I would ever care about is from about 2 a.m. until 8 a.m. Basically, to watch decent music videos on Music Television, you have to be: a.) working odd shifts that leaves you awake during the wee-hours of the morning; or b.) coming off a crystal meth binge and watching the videos because it's adding excitement to the hallucinations you're already having from sleep deprivation.

Over the Christmas weekend, when the South Park Christmas marathon wasn't on, I looked for decent things to watch. I thought to myself: Hey, MTV might have something interesting, I think I'll check them out. (And no, I don't talk to myself.) So I flip it to channel 76 only to find those goddamn ass pirates from Laguna Beach plastered on the fucking screen.

(Is that not the worst fucking excuse for a show you've ever seen? Shallow, pretentious and deplorable are the words that come to mind when I try to explain that show/atrocity. What is up with America's fascination with people who have it better than us and all their petty problems? Who gives a shit? I'd love the chance to slap the fuck out of each and every one of those cast members.)

MTV has only two shows that I can think of that actually broadcast videos: Total Request Live and Direct Effect. TRL is a goddamn joke. The videos are voted on the shows by adolescent, pimple-faced, wine-cooler sipping numskulls. Therefore, the only bands that even make an appearance on TRL are shitty, label- and money-driven pop bands. At least only about a minute and a half of each video is shown. That, perhaps, is the only upside of the whole fucking show.

Direct Effect, on the other hand, really isn't that bad — that is only if you like rap. I can appreciate rap, contrary to many of my friends. I hate "ice" rap. But I like lyricists and good freestylers. The main problem with Direct Effect is that the videos it shows are voted into the show, rather than picked. Therefore, you see the same goddamn videos for days — or even weeks — in a row. The positives for the show include the fact that they introduce new artists often, have numerous guests and show the entire videos.

Occasionally, MTV will find a decent band and introduce them to their narrow audience. However, they almost always exploit the hell out of that band until they get on your nerves. For example, MTV people love The Killers. I like The Killers. But goddamn, I want to hate them just because so many other people like them... as weird as that sounds. I'm just one of those people that, well, here's an explanation: If I go see a movie and I love it, I'll start to hate it if everyone in the fucking world loves it, too.

Perhaps the most respectable aspect of MTV's broadcasting is MTVNews. It is pretty informative, most of the time. But, MTV, take note — Gideon Yago is a no-talent, uncharismatic ass pirate. He has the personality of a pine cone and the likability of a opossum. The best journalist they have is Kurt Loder; though, he hardly makes an appearance. He's a dick, but he's smart and he doesn't let artists get away with anything.

Anyway ... That's it, though. That's bull shit. Music fucking Television has two shows where they show music videos. MTV2 is what MTV used to be. Entertaining sometimes. Fucking stupid sometimes. However, you can always count on seeing the newest bands, some underground bands and plenty of music.

MTV2 should replace the current MTV, and it's acronym shold be changed to MTV-POP/REALITY BULLSHIT SHOWS.